The Shroud of SPECTRE
by Franklin W. Dixon
Summary: From the original canon and rejected by Grosset & Dunlap in early 1967, THE SHROUD OF SPECTRE follows Frank and Joe Hardy's international investigation into the disappearance of the Shroud of Turin.
1. Chapter I: Exciting Invitation

CHAPTER I

 _Exciting Invitation_

"Wait up, fellows!" a red-nosed Chet Morton whined, barely keeping up with his best friends, the agile Hardy Boys. The lads turned onto High Street toting their booksacks. "I t-thought we were all headed to Piper's Snack Shop to celebrate the start of Winter Session?!"

"Sorry, chum," a grinning Joe Hardy, seventeen, replied, briskly walking ahead of his plump friend. "You know Piper's shut down for the season. But good try."

A gust of wind prompted a disappointed Chet to rub his mittens together. Winter had most assuredly descended upon Bayport, a town of about 50,000 three miles from the Atlantic Ocean.

Joe's older brother, eighteen-year-old, dark-haired Frank, pulled the flaps of his cap down farther as he watched his breath emit into the freezing air. His boots crunched on fresh sidewalk snow.

"Remind me," Frank bemoaned, "Never again to pass up a ride when Callie Shaw offers. Especially in a souped-up Corvette!" Callie, a pretty co-ed in Frank's class, was also his favorite date.

"I did remind you," Joe teased, his eyes glimmering. "Sometimes, brother, your head is too far into the clouds."

"I just haven't been able to think about anything other than what I'm supposed to be getting in the mail," Frank reasoned.

A high school senior, Frank was receiving numerous acceptance letters from colleges. With some of the highest marks in his class, the early acceptance letters were a testament to Frank's work ethic and talent.

As the Hardys and a panting Chet reached the Hardy house on the corner of High and Elm streets, Frank dashed to the mailbox and retrieved a stack of letters and periodicals.

"This is for you," Frank said to Joe, handing him the latest copy of _National Geographic_. The cover depicted a smiling shepherd overseeing his flock of sheep.

Both of the boys stood by the mailbox, Joe flipping through the rag and Frank quickly filing through the letters.

"Might we do this _inside_ , fellows?" Chet decried, his teeth chattering.

Laughing, Joe rolled up the yellow magazine and slapped Chet playfully on the shoulder. The trio proceeded inside the spacious, three-story, clapboard house.

"Now we're talking," Chet smiled, tossing off the mittens as he warmed up by the parlor fireplace.

Frank and Joe each greeted their mother, Laura Hardy, with a peck on her cheek. She was in the kitchen preparing a roast for supper, joined by her sister-in-law, the angular Gertrude Hardy, whose tough demeanor belied much affection for her nephews.

"What is that masterpiece you're laboring over, Aunt Gertrude?" Frank baited, leaning over her shoulder.

"Why, if you must know, Frank Hardy, this is an apple fritter pie. And if you keep bringing snow and slush into this house you won't have any! That goes for you too, Joe Hardy!" She waved a wooden spoon in his direction.

"Yes, ma'am!" the boys replied in unison.

After the boys dutifully removed their coats and set the table along with Chet's help, who had invited himself to dinner, the three boys and two women sat down at the table.

"When should we expect Dad?" Joe asked after the group said grace.

"He's due to arrive into the airport at ten o'clock," Laura answered. "Now that you are on break, perhaps you two could pick him up?"

"You bet!" Frank responded, scooping a dollop of mashed potatoes onto his plate.

"Maybe we can pick Mr. Hardy up in a Corvette?" Chet deadpanned in between bites of roast and carrots. Frank shot his stout friend a look. Chet winked.

Fenton Hardy, the renowned private detective, had been on an investigation in the exotic Bahamas, at the request of his longtime associate, Admiral Rodgers. Mr. Hardy, Admiral Rodgers, and members of the United States CIA were looking into the exploits of an underworld figure called Largo. He had offered no further information to his sons.

Frank and Joe had developed a knack for solving mysteries themselves. They first struck pay dirt in _The Tower Treasure_ and most recently wound up in Kentucky thwarting a gang of saboteurs in _The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge_.

"Anything to report in those stack of letters you brought in, Frank?" Aunt Gertrude asked, her eyes narrowed.

"Oh, nothing of importance. Just a few more letters from colleges," Frank answered.

"Well, from where?" Joe asked excitedly.

Frank shrugged. "Just Princeton, Boston College, Columbia, MIT. Maybe Harvard."

"Rejections?" Chet asked with sympathy.

"No, I got in," Frank replied simply, taking a bite off his fork.

Laura let out a surprise gasp as cheers and congratulations abounded from around the table.

"Your father would sure be proud," Aunt Gertrude beamed. The others agreed.

At that moment, the doorbell dinged. Chet, the individual closest to the door, rose to answer it, his napkin tucked inside his polo neck collar, but Joe was already exiting the room.

"Greetings." A Western Union dispatcher stood on the doorstep. He handed an envelope over to Joe.

Joe fished through the tiny pocket of his Levis and handed a couple of dollars over to the man. The dispatcher tipped his cap and disappeared into the darkening December air.

Something about the man struck Joe as odd.

Joe returned to the dining room turning over the 11x17 white envelope in his hands.

"Well?" Aunt Gertrude asked expectantly.

"It's addressed to F. Hardy," Joe said slowly, referencing the typewritten address information on the center of the envelope. "Not sure if that's Dad or you, Frank."

"Where's it from?" Frank asked.

Joe scanned the corner of the envelope. "It's stamped Marshall College," he answered.

"Must be a recruitment letter," Frank said, setting the envelope aside and resuming his dinner.

"Perhaps you should open it now, son," Frank's mother gently suggested. The tone in her voice told Frank he should comply without any questioning.

Frank thumbed open the seal. He removed a page from the envelope, quickly scanning the content.

"What is it?" Chet asked. He had the sense this was the beginning of a new adventure. He wasn't sure yet if he wanted to be a part of it.

"It's a note to Dad!" Frank announced. "'Dear Fenton: Excavation at monastery confirmed. Proceed with appointment. Signed'…" Frank trailed off, stuttering.

"Go on," demanded Aunt Gertrude.

Frank and Joe exchanged the longest of glances before Frank looked back down at the note.

"Who's it from, Frank?" Joe asked breathlessly.

Finally, Frank read the signature aloud. "Dr. Henry W. Jones, Jr. Dean, Marshall College."


	2. Chapter II: Hitchhiker

CHAPTER II

 _Hitchhiker_

After finishing dinner and enjoying Aunt Gertrude's apple fritter pie, the Hardys and Chet cleaned up the kitchen and washed the dishes. Then they retreated to the upstairs workroom in the converted garage out back.

Last month, with the help of their friend, Tony Prito, the Hardys installed a heating unit. Within moments on this frigid evening, a toasty warmth emanated from the ducts.

Spurred by the telegram from Dr. Jones of Marshall College, the boys dug through old copies of _National Geographic_. Stacks of back issues were placed on a shelf built by Mr. Hardy. They were hunting for all those that detailed the adventures of the famous archaeologist.

"It makes sense he would be acquainted with Dad," reasoned Frank. "But I never thought the two would ever be working together! I sure would like to know what's up."

"How come you fellows haven't mentioned him before?" Chet queried.

"He's a little older now. Been fairly quiet since the start of the Cold War, I gather," Frank replied, handing Chet a pile of _National Geographic_ mostly from the 1930s and 40s. "I suppose his duties as Dean have kept him busy. That's him there."

Chet studied the photo. It was taken in a kind of underground cave. The handsomely cut figure, with an unshaven face, wore a fedora and leather jacket. He stared back at the camera. He appeared to be holding a whip.

Other pictures showed artistic renderings of artifacts such as the Ark of the Covenant and an ancient map purported to be of Atlantis.

Chet read, in an awed tone, one of the captions. It was an eye-popping photograph of a desert landscape. "Dr. Jones estimates he has crisscrossed the globe 27 times throughout his career," the text read. "Here, within this canyon in Hatay, rests buried in a temple carved in rock what Dr. Jones believes is the Holy Grail."

For a moment, none of the boys spoke.

"Did you apply to Marshall, Frank?" Chet asked, eyes glued to the images as he tenderly turned a page.

"No, it didn't cross my mind," the elder Hardy replied absently. "But maybe I should give it another look."

"I suppose I should buckle down with my college search, too," the doughty lad lamented.

"If you don't feel college is for you, there's a farm waiting for you, Chet," Frank encouraged. "And that's a swell job for someone who knows how to do it like you!"

Joe called from the window. "Say, fellows, douse the lights, would you?"

Frank complied. "What gives?"

With the lights out in the garage, Joe slowly peered out the edge of the window armed with a pair of binoculars. From that vantage point, Joe could see the corner of Elm and High streets, illuminated by a street lamp.

"There's been a car parked outside our house since we've been up here. I can't see who's inside."

"What kind of car is it?" Frank asked.

Joe shook his head. "Too hard to tell. Let's just keep an eye on it."

Flipping the electricity back on, the three chums remained in the workroom until it was time to head to the airport.

"Would you mind dropping me off on your way to pick up your father?" Chet asked.

"Sure, Chet," Frank replied. "Come to think of it, perhaps one of us should stay back in the event the house is really being watched."

"Good idea," his brother answered. "I'll do it."

As Frank and Chet cleaned off the snow from the Hardy sedan, they casually glanced down the street. The parked car was gone.

The ride out to Chet's family farmhouse was uneventful. A snowfall had garnered strength, forcing Frank to pay extra attention to the road. Chet, however, could not contain his enthusiasm for the cryptic telegram or for his newfound hero, Dr. Jones.

"Maybe we'll be able to travel to some secret place that's off the map!" the chubby friend cheerfully thought aloud.

When the Morton farmhouse came into view, Frank breathed easier. "Maybe the telegram's referring to catacombs, Chet."

"C-catacombs?"

"Where there're skeletons and rodents. All that stuff you like."

Chet shivered. "Maybe I'll just stick with my easel and paint."

Now it was Frank's turn to be taken aback. "Easel and paint?"

Chet puffed out his chest. "I've been working on my artisan skills, my friend. Perhaps one day I'll allow you a glimpse of my masterworks."

Frank giggled. There was never a hobby Chet was involved with for some length of time.

Moments later, Chet exited the sedan. "My best to your parents and Iola," Frank called.

"Roger!" Chet responded as he shut the door.

With the airport not too far from the Morton residence, Frank took the north road towards the terminal. As he passed the old Stanwide Mining Equipment Company, Frank slowed the sedan when he noticed a strange sight between the windshield wipers battling the endless snow.

The road was otherwise abandoned save for a solitary vehicle parked on the side of the road, its hazard lights flashing. A man was waving frantically at the oncoming Hardy automobile.

Frank rolled down the passenger window, frigid air immediately whipping through the heated car.

"How can I help you?" he called to the man.

"Howdy, stranger, a stroke of luck your coming this way. My jeep broke down and I'm in desperate need of getting to the airport."

"What's the trouble with it?"

"The old clunker's rear left tire gave out on me. I knew I was pushing it."

"Happy to help, if you have a spare," Frank offered. "Won't take more than a few minutes."

"That's the thing, son," the man shifted his feet in the snow. "No spare on me. Would you mind dropping me off at the airport and I can meet up with my cronies at the cargo hold?"

Frank thought for a moment. "Sure," he agreed. "Hop in."

The shivering man quickly opened the door and plopped into the seat.

As Frank slowly rolled past the out of commission jeep, he asked, "Want to turn your flashers off? They'll drain your battery."

"Oh," the man replied. "That's careless of me. No, let's just keep going."

Frank noticed the back left tire, the one the hitchhiker mentioned was busted. It looked fine to Frank. The man glanced at Frank's eyeline out of the corner of his eye.

"Mister," the Hardy boy said carefully, "What company do you work for? There's no sign on your jeep."

"Western Union," the man said coldly.

Frank, recalling the telegram delivery earlier that night and the surveillance car outside the Hardy house, shot him a look. The man gave a wolfish smile.

"No good deed goes unpunished, Hardy," the man growled.

"What do you—"

Before Frank could finish his question, the man dealt a stunning blow to the back of Frank's head. The Hardy youth immediately lost conscious, losing control of the wheel.

The Hardy sedan caromed towards the dark, snowy abyss off the side of the road!


	3. Chapter III: Snowbound

CHAPTER III

 _Snowbound_

Frank's assailant grasped for the wobbling steering wheel and guided the Hardy sedan towards a thicket. Bracing for impact, the man lurched forward as the car struck a snow-coated underbrush. Frank, still unconscious, banged against the side door.

The rear end of the Hardy car had nosedived into the brush, its back tires spinning in the air!

Quickly, the man pulled Frank from the car and dragged him back towards the white jeep. The man hastily bound and gagged Frank. He hoisted the limp youth into the back of the jeep.

As he climbed into the jeep and started the engine, the man was surprised at the sudden powering up of a series of floodlights around him. The entrance to the Stanwide Mining Equipment Company was located only a few hundred yards away, its security lights now all ablaze.

Casually, the man reversed the jeep in the direction not of the airport, but Bayport proper. As he passed the main gate of the company, a flashlight shone towards the jeep.

"Sir!" a voice called from near the gated entrance.

The man in the jeep rolled down the window. "Can I help you?"

"We've heard some commotion," a security guard reported as he approached the vehicle. "Is there a problem?"

"As a matter of fact," the man said, "I just passed a disabled car off to the side of the road about 500 feet down that way!"

Concern crossed the security guard's face. "Is anyone hurt from what you can tell?"

"It appears the car is damaged but abandoned, Officer. You might want to have a look. Maybe the driver needs help!" the man suggested with a false tone of hope in his voice.

"We'll notify Highway Patrol," the guard responded. "Thanks, and drive safe!" Immediately, the man gunned the jeep down the snowy and icy road.

As he drove, he glanced behind him. Frank was stirring in the back loading area of the jeep. "You heard all that, kid?" the man scowled. "You're not going to get out that easy." Frank, anger in his eyes, could only squirm in muffled tones.

Less than a mile down the road, the snowfall had become a major snowstorm. A news bulletin on the radio advised all travelers to stay off Bayport roads.

The blizzard was so thick the man could only see a foot in front of the jeep. When he failed to properly round a bend in time, the jeep's front tire smashed into the base of a telephone pole.

The jeep choked to a stop. The kidnapper frantically got out to examine the damage. There would certainly be no driving on that tire, he thought to himself. Desperation overtaking him, he looked around for some kind of solution.

The man's eyes fell on a nearby house, lights blazing from inside. _The jeep had broken down in front of the Morton farmhouse!_

Renewed, the man flung open the vehicle back door. "If you're as smart as you say you think you are," he growled to Frank, "You'll be as quiet as a church mouse." He slammed the door shut.

The man trudged up the snow-covered driveway, admiring as he did a parked red Corvette, half-buried in fresh snow.

Inside, Callie Shaw was assisting her friend, Iola Morton, Chet's sister and the object of Joe Hardy's affection, and Mrs. Morton with decorating the Christmas tree. Earlier in the week, Chet and Mr. Morton had chopped it down on Farmer Kane's tree property.

A knock at the door surprised the three women. "Who could be out here in this weather?" Mrs. Morton asked, perplexed.

"I'll get it," Mr. Morton answered, emerging from the TV room. "Maybe Chet got locked out again," Iola giggled.

Chet had been occupying himself in the barn, which he had converted a portion to a studio. He had been hard at work on a miniature replica on canvas of Michelangelo's _Last Judgment_ as a Christmas present for his mother.

Mr. Morton was surprised as he opened the door. "Greetings, kind sir," the man replied, feigning the shivers and resorting to his falsetto tone of friendliness.

"Yes?" Mr. Morton asked.

"I'm a Western Union dispatcher and afraid my vehicle broke down outside. May I use your phone?"

Iola's ears perked up. She recalled Chet excitedly mention the Hardys receiving a strange telegram earlier in the evening from Dr. Jones. When she spoke with Joe over phone briefly before Callie arrived, he confessed the peculiar feeling he felt when interacting with the messenger.

"Certainly, but what seems to be the problem with your vehicle? Happy to help in any way to get it repaired while you wait out the storm," Mr. Morton offered.

In the meanwhile, Iola calmly walked into the kitchen. She dialed a direct line to the barn, which Chet, Frank, Joe, and Phil Cohen helped install one weekend.

"Pronto!" Chet answered cheerfully on the other end.

"Chet," Iola spoke in a hushed tone, "I think the same man who dropped off that telegram at the Hardys is at our front door. He wants to use the phone. Can you listen in on the home line?"

"Jeepers," Chet whistled. "You're becoming a regular sleuth yourself, Iola. Put him on. Even us _artistes_ need a break."

Iola returned to the living room. Mr. Morton was offering to fix the jeep's flat tire.

"I appreciate your kindness, sir," the man replied. "I'll just need to tell my supervisor of my location."

"Of course."

The man nodded to the others as Mr. Morton showed him the phone in the kitchen. The man cradled the receiver, dialed, and turned his back to the room, hunching in towards the phone.

"Agent G to Housing AD, over," the man whispered.

"Go ahead," a voice flatly returned on the other end.

"Snowbound outside Bayport. Cargo in place, but request reinforcement."

"Negative, Agent G. You have less than 30 minutes and counting."

The line clicked. The man hung up, disheartened.

Chet held his breath before hanging up. "Cargo in place?" he thought to himself. He quickly put on his hat and coat.

The man returned to the living room, sweating. He noticed the Mortons and Callie peering out the main living room window.

"Is everything okay?" the man stammered.

"Police car just sped by!" Mrs. Morton reported. "Must've been an accident down the road."

"Look!" Callie pointed in the other direction. "What's that truck?"

Mr. Morton squinted. "It's a tow truck! It's stopping right outside!"

Without warning, the man galloped out the front door, nearly skating off the front porch, racing to his broken down jeep.

Chet was crossing from the barn to the house when he saw the man flee towards the road.

"Hey!" Chet called. The man ignored the rosy-cheeked boy. "Be careful, Chet!" Iola called from the door.

By now, the tow truck driver was latching the jeep to the yoke. "Say, driver? Wh-what's the big idea?" the man panted.

"Sorry, mac," the driver said, adjusting the yoke to the front of the jeep. "Chief Collig's ordered any vehicles off the roads during the storm. Just doin' my job."

Glancing behind him, the man noticed an approaching Chet Morton stomping through the snow. Mr. Morton was trailing behind him. Before him, the tow truck driver was leaning over the crank, raising the jeep.

Instantly, the man pounced on the driver, using the same technique that rendered Frank unconscious. The man collapsed to the ground.

"Stop!" Chet cried. But the man had already assented into the driver's seat of the tow truck and rumbled away.

"We can't let him out of our sight, Dad! He's not a Western Union messenger! He's a spy!" Chet shouted through the winter wind as the two pulled the tow truck driver off the road, who shook his head as he regained consciousness.

Callie Shaw emerged from the Morton home. "Come on, Chet," she called waving her keys. "I know it's not the Queen," referring to Chet's beloved jalopy, "But I think my Corvette has a better chance of catching the tow truck!"

Quickly, Mr. Morton and Chet assisted Callie in cleaning off the Corvette. A moment later, the engine revved.

"Listen to that!" Chet smiled in the passenger seat, as Callie reversed the Corvette onto the road.

In the house, Iola placed a call to the Hardy residence. Joe answered. Iola quickly explained to him the encounter with the man. "Callie and Chet in pursuit!" Joe cried in amazement, thanking Iola for the update. As he hung up, car headlights flashed through the windows of the Hardy house.

"Frank and Dad!" Joe said to himself with relief as he went outside. He was startled to see Mr. Hardy emerge from a taxicab with his luggage.

"Dad?" Joe asked, confused.

"Hello, son!" Mr. Hardy responded. "Bayport's airport is shut down due to the weather. Took a cab from the Jersey airport, which was perilous in itself."

"But Frank went to the airport to pick you up!"

"I'm sure he's been turned back by airport security. Let's hope he's extra cautious in this storm."

Inside, Joe showed his father the telegram from Dr. Jones. As he read over the short note, Mr. Hardy's brow furrowed.

"What do you make of it, Dad?" Joe asked impatiently.

Mr. Hardy glanced dumbly at his son. "Why, I haven't spoken to Dr.

Jones in over 20 years."


	4. Chapter IV: Polypus Ex Machina

CHAPTER IV

 _Polypus Ex Machina_

"20 years?!" Joe repeated incredulously. "But the telegram!"

Mr. Hardy nodded, putting his finger to his lips. "I'm as befuddled as you are, Joe. Help me with the rest of my luggage?"

Joe followed his father outside. Mr. Hardy walked to the middle of the snow-caked front yard carrying his briefcase.

"What's going on, Dad?" Joe asked, perplexed.

"Wherever I have gone for the past three weeks I have been bugged," Fenton Hardy explained in a low tone. "I wouldn't doubt our own home is as well."

Joe gasped at the notion. Mr. Hardy pulled a legal-sized black-and-white photograph from his briefcase. He held it up for Joe.

"Recognize this man?"

A mug shot of a glum face gazed at the camera lens. "The Western Union deliveryman!" Joe uttered in shock.

Mr. Hardy nodded. "An expert manipulator. Name of Muldoon. Low level thug for an organization whose name I dare not mention now."

"What's his game?" Joe queried.

"The telegram was obviously meant as a trap, which means they are more privy to my dealings with Dr. Jones than I suspected," Mr. Hardy answered.

"So," Joe replied slowly, "You _have_ been working with him?"

"In connection with my work in the Bahamas. We're part of a task force involved with investigating probably the biggest heist I've ever encountered."

Joe's eyes widened.

"I'm afraid we're up against a serious foe, Joe. I'm not sure we've got the upper hand on this one, either." Mr. Hardy was about to say more when the storm window of Aunt Gertrude's upstairs bedroom violently opened.

"What are you ruffians doing out there in the middle of a blizzard?" Aunt Gertrude barked. "Chief Collig is on the line for you!"

Fenton waved to his sister and turned to walk inside. "But, Dad," Joe urgently warned, "The wiretap!"

"It's a chance we'll have to take," Fenton Hardy grimly said. "Besides, I'm a bit worried about Frank. Come on!"

After greeting his wife, Mr. Hardy took the call from the Bayport police chief in his study. Joe joined him.

"I received word from Officer Riley," Chief Collig explained. "Your sedan was found by Stanwide Mining Company, damaged. Who was driving?"

"Frank!" Mr. Hardy answered in dismay. "He was picking me up from the airport this evening."

"Goes without saying he wasn't in the vehicle," Collig continued. "We believe he may be connected with a strange incident at the Morton farm. A tow truck driver was assaulted. Chet and Callie Shaw are in a slow-speed chase of the alleged assailant. We have officers en route, but the weather conditions are hindering us."

"What's their 10-20?" Mr. Hardy asked, gesturing to Joe for a pad and pencil.

"Shore Road headed towards the waterfront," the chief replied.

"Thanks, Chief," Mr. Hardy said jotting down "Shore Road" on the notepad. "We'll be in touch." Mr. Hardy quickly hung up. "Frank must be at the center of this pursuit. Let's go, Joe!"

Mr. Hardy and Joe dashed to the garage where the Hardys' two motorcycles were stored. Within minutes, father and son were braving the elements, the motorcycles tires kicking up slush as they sped down Elm Street in the direction of the Bayport waterfront. "Let's see if we can cut them off!" Mr. Hardy shouted through the gust.

The waterfront, a combination of seedy motels, docks, and saloons, had become a haven for underworld gatherings. The windy Shore Road was normally a busy thoroughfare along Barmet Bay, the horseshoe-shaped inlet off which Bayport was situated.

Other than some black ice patches, the motorcyclists were able to reach the Bayport waterfront without trouble. Given the blizzard assaulting Bayport, there was not a soul about the area.

Mr. Hardy stopped at a popular scenic cliffside point that acted as a helipad landing area for the port authority patrol. Removing a pair of binoculars from the motorcycle compartment, Fenton surveyed what he could of Shore Road.

Minutes went by until finally there appeared a pair of headlights round the bend headed towards the waterfront. Soon, another pair of headlights followed behind that vehicle.

"Here they come," Mr. Hardy announced. "Let's go."

Chet and Callie had followed closely on the tow truck's trail without being able to disable it. The broken down jeep anchored to the tow truck proved to be a useful wedge for Muldoon keeping Callie and Chet at bay.

"As long as we don't let him out of our sight," Callie said through gritted teeth, "He can't win."

"You sure sound like Frank Hardy's girlfriend!" Chet chided before glancing a sideways glance at Callie. "Th-that is official, right?"

Callie gave a terse grin before she swerved the Corvette to the left. "Something's happening. Hang on!"

Callie braked, slowing down a bit. Ahead, she saw two motorcycles flashing their headlights.

"Bayport Police might be trying to slow down this guy," Chet suggested.

"I don't think that's Bayport PD," Callie responded.

A confounded Muldoon honked at the oncoming motorcyclists, but they would not budge nearing the oncoming truck.

"Who are these guys?" he muttered to himself. He glanced at the clock on the truck console. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

As Fenton closed in on the driver side of the tow truck, he peered up at Muldoon. Muldoon, recognizing Fenton Hardy, scowled and shook his fist.

"Why that's Mr. Hardy and Joe!" Chet cried from the Corvette passenger seat. "They're trying to get him to stop."

"Trouble coming up behind them," Callie muttered.

"What do you mean?" Chet asked squinting to see. "Oh, no," he moaned.

A Bayport city snowplow was steadily gaining behind Joe and Fenton Hardy!

Callie rolled her window down. "Behind you!" she shouted, but her warning was lost to the wind.

The driver of the snowplow slammed on the horn, its golden lights flashing, the blade shoveling a continuous wave of snow out of its path. It was less than a hundred feet from the Hardys, the Muldoon tow truck, and Callie's Corvette.

"Dad," Joe called. "We got company!"

Mr. Hardy and Joe steered their motorcycles off to the side of the road just as the plow sped past the tow truck and Corvette. The blade's fury buried the Hardys and their motorcycles in a heap of snow!

As the two burrowed their way out, the tow truck continued its descent down Shore Road reaching the edge of the Bayport waterfront.

"Joe," Mr. Hardy cried, "Are you okay?"

"Fine!" Joe answered. He then craned his head upwards upon hearing a roar from the sky. "Dad," he shouted, pointing up. "Look!"

Mr. Hardy gazed upwards. A low flying helicopter roared over the cove as it hurtled towards the waterfront.

Mr. Hardy grimaced. "Get these bikes up now!" he ordered as they hastily brushed off the snow from the motorcycles.

The helicopter, a sleek black piece of machinery, glided parallel with Shore Road before hovering around the helipad area on the cliffside.

Muldoon flashed his wolfish grin as he saw the sight. He steered the tow truck and the dilapidated jeep towards the helipad. Callie followed closely.

As the helicopter landed, Muldoon crept out of the tow truck and opened the back of the jeep. Callie and Chet both gasped at the sight of a bound and gagged Frank writhing vainly in Muldoon's clutches towards the helicopter.

"They have Frank, Dad!" Joe decried as the motorcycles sped towards the helipad. Both doubled down on their acceleration.

"Stop him, Chet!" Callie yelled from the passenger seat. Chet immediately complied. He darted out of the Corvette and leapt at Muldoon's feet under the frenzied blades of the chopper. Despite Chet's valiant efforts, a powerful figure exited the helicopter and quickly subdued Chet with a swipe to the leg and a punch to the gut.

"Chet!" Callie stepped out of the Corvette, deciding whether to attack the men herself.

"Heads up, Callie!" Joe Hardy announced from behind her.

Callie jumped out of the way. As the figure and Muldoon loaded Frank into the helicopter, they both glanced back at the approaching motorcyclists encroaching in on them.

"Go, go, go!" Muldoon shouted to the pilot as he shut the door with Frank inside.

As the motorcyclists sped in on the helicopter ramping for liftoff, Joe shouted, "Dad, that symbol on the chopper! Do you know it?" He nodded to a macabre depiction of an evil-eyed octopus with eight tentacles.

"It's the organization we're after," Mr. Hardy responded, eyes narrowing, leaning forward on the bike. "It's called SPECTRE."


	5. Chapter V: College Freshmen

CHAPTER V

 _College Freshmen_

As the SPECTRE helicopter lifted off the helipad with Frank inside, Mr. Hardy skidded his motorcycle to a halt. He sneered up at the chopper helplessly as it rose, about to hover over the cliffside and make its departure over Barmet Bay. Muldoon grinned at the elder Hardy from the tiny side window.

Joe, however, did not stop. He gunned his engine even greater. Just as the chopper turned itself around to face the bay preparing to depart, Joe drove his bike off the cliff!

"Joe!" Callie and Chet screamed in terror.

"Son!" Fenton shouted, his heart nearly stopping.

Joe had banked on the momentum that he gained going towards the cliffside would propel him for a short airborne distance. It was a do-or-die gamble.

But Joe never took his eyes off the chopper's landing skids. As the bike flew off the cliff, Joe extended his arms in a dive position reaching upwards. His index and ring fingers felt the black bar. He tightened as much as he could and interlocked both hands on his hold of the one landing skid.

To the amazement of the onlookers at the helipad, Joe managed to retain his clutch on the helicopter's bar as the machine flew over the icy waters of Barmet Bay. Pride swelled within Mr. Hardy. Never taking his eyes off his dangling son, Fenton spoke to a stunned Callie and Chet.

"We need to alert the port authority ASAP," he said. "Chet and Callie, get to police headquarters on the double. I'll keep an eye out here for as long as I can," he said, lifting the binoculars to his eyes.

Immediately, the Corvette vanished up Barmet Boulevard towards Bayport police headquarters.

It took a few moments for the occupants of the SPECTRE helicopter to realize they had an intruder clinging to a landing skid. Muldoon flung open the door and peered out.

"Klein!" he cried to someone inside. "Crowbar! We have a leach on our shoe."

A crowbar was handed to Muldoon who promptly swung it at Joe's fingers. Joe winced in pain. A second strike forced the brave Hardy to let go of the landing skid with his left hand. Muldoon flashed his wolfish grin as he prepped to strike a third time.

Inside the chopper, Frank was set on the floor, still bound and gagged. With both Klein and Muldoon gawking over the open door, Frank snaked towards them. As Muldoon brought the crowbar down, Frank kicked as hard as he could despite his limitations at Muldoon's Achilles tendon.

Muldoon lost his balance and tumbled topsy-turvy out of the helicopter into the raging waters of the bay below!

"Say…" Klein growled as he turned to face Frank. Frank responded with a quick thrust to Klein's shin. The blow sent Klein backwards plummeting into the waters just as Muldoon bobbed up, drenched and arms flailing.

Spurred by Frank's heroics, Joe summoned all his strength to hoist himself up into the chopper. Undeterred by the disposal of his cronies, the SPECTRE pilot swerved to and fro so as to dismantle the aggravating youth. Joe, however, would not be denied. When he successfully pulled himself into the helicopter, Frank's eyes widened.

"Frank!" Joe exclaimed breathlessly as he dashed to his brother's aid. Removing a Swiss army knife from a secret compartment in his boot, Joe quickly disabled the bounds that had fastened Frank down for so long. When Joe ripped the rag out of Frank's mouth, the older Hardy breathed out a large sigh.

"How did you do it, Joe?" Frank asked with pure awe in his voice.

"I don't know," his brother replied with a wink. "But Callie was sure impressed!"

"Callie?" Frank replied with concern. "Is she okay?"

"Better than us," Joe answered. "Now what are we going to do?"

By now the pilot knew he was outnumbered. As he was flying over the bay, his own options were limited.

"Would love to know where they were going to take me," Frank muttered. "Who's behind this anyway, do we know?"

"SPECTRE," Joe replied grimly. "That's what Dad says."

"SPECTRE?" Frank replied in surprise. "The terrorist organization?"

"I'll update you what I know," Joe answered quickly. "Look, Frank!" Joe pointed to a tugboat down in the bay ahead of them. "We either try to deal with the pilot, or bail."

"I don't think I want to spend any more time in here," Frank said. "Come on!"

Without a moment's notice Frank dove into Barmet Bay. Joe followed behind him. The Hardys made perfect dives into the unfriendly waters. The helicopter continued on out towards the Atlantic.

The tugboat, operated by an old seaman named Frederickson, saw the two figures in the water. Throwing them lifesavers, he helped the freezing Hardys into the tugboat.

"Why, I've been out in these here waters for fi'ty years and I ain't never seen such acrobatics in my life!" Frederickson intoned through a series of missing teeth. "I don't reckon you have identification on yer persons?"

"They're a bit soaked at the moment," Frank answered, shaking the water out of his ears.

"How do I know you two ain't subersives to the state? I kinda keep an extra pair o' eyes out on these waters for Chief Collig _et al_."

"My name is Joe Hardy and this is my brother, Frank. We're Bayport residents."

Frederickson's eyes narrowed. "Hardy? As in Fenton Hardy, the detective?"

"He's our father," Frank answered wearily.

Such a name recognition as Fenton Hardy was enough for Frederickson to escort Frank and Joe to the pier, including placing a radio call to Bayport police.

Chief Collig himself met the Hardys at the dock. As they warmed up with blankets around them, Joe said, "SPECTRE very well could have Dad under full time surveillance, Chief. He'll want to be active on this case but it might be wise for him not to leave the house for awhile."

"We'll put a guard outside your house for the time being," Chief Collig assured them. "We'll also sweep the premises for bugs. Shall we take you home?"

Frank and Joe exchanged glances. "Actually," Joe said. "We can use a little cash. A loan, Chief. Can you get a message to Mom and Dad that we're going to be traveling for a few days?"

"Certainly," the Chief replied pulling out a ten-dollar bill. "Where to?"

"Connecticut. Can you drop us at the bus station?"

The boys caught an overnight Greyhound to Bedford, Connecticut. On the way, in between hungry bites from cheese sandwiches purchased at the bus terminal, Joe filled Frank in on SPECTRE and the heist Mr. Hardy was working on with Dr. Jones.

"I don't know much else," Joe stated. "But we're about to find out more. I hope."

At dawn, the bus deposited the passengers at the Bedford terminal. It took less than a half hour for the Hardys to walk to the site of Marshall College, a sleepy campus on this day since it was the start of winter hiatus.

"Let's see if we get lucky," Joe said. The two dashed up stairs of a building with a bell tower above the entrance. Inside, they found a lone receptionist, a Mrs. Fairweather, doing a crossword puzzle.

"Hello," Frank said. "We're here to see Dean Jones?"

Mrs. Fairweather looked at the lethargic, disheveled youths over her spectacles. "May I ask why on a Saturday morning?"

"W-w-we haven't turned in our final assignments and the Dean approved an extension," Joe stammered. Frank, keeping himself from laughing, nodded solemnly.

Frank then added, "We're just mere college freshmen, ma'am."

"I'm sorry, but Dr. Jones may have already left for Greece. I think you boys may be out of luck."

Joe and Frank excitedly looked at each other. Greece!

"Well, can we see if he's in his office?" Frank asked hopefully.

"No need," an authoritarian voice boomed behind them. "I'm right here."

The boys wheeled around. _Dr. Henry Jones, Jr. was staring blandly and unimpressed at Frank and Joe Hardy!_


	6. Chapter VI: Shrouded History

CHAPTER VI

 _Shrouded History_

"Blofeld's goons knew enough about our project to try to bait your father to the monastery," Jones muttered thoughtfully, shifting a handful of books from one arm to the other. He wore an overcoat over a tweed jacket and bow tie. Frank and Joe flanked the professor as the three walked down the main campus drag, Brody Way. It was empty.

"Blofeld?" Joe repeated. "Sure is a creepy name!"

"Ernst Stavro Blofeld," Jones sighed. "The head of SPECTRE." The archaeology professor stopped and faced Frank and Joe. "Look, kids, I appreciate your interest in helping your father. I can relate. I also understand you have quite a resume of solved cases under your belt, but even this might be out of your league. Maybe you should take the police protection and stay home."

"Try us," Frank answered.

"All right," smirked Jones. "What do you know about the Turin Shroud?" Both Frank and Joe each let out a low whistle as they exchanged glances.

Jones nodding knowingly. "I take it you have an idea. Come on," he cocked his head towards a diner across the street. "I haven't even had my coffee yet."

The trio proceeded towards the diner. Jones passed off the stack of books to Joe. "Give me a hand, will ya?" Then he said, as if to himself, "You boys probably don't even drink coffee yet."

At a quiet table in the corner of the diner, Jones marveled at the Hardys' appetite as he sipped his coffee. In between bites of a Belgian waffle, Frank asked, "How did you come to know my father?"

"We were introduced by a mutual acquaintance, a former student of mine. Felix Leiter. Works for the CIA. Your father and I both advised the government in the aftermath of a recent SPECTRE operation in the Bahamas called 'Operation Thunderball.' It was then we learned," Jones paused, dropping his voice even lower, "about the problem with the Shroud."

"Problem?" Joe asked gulping orange juice.

Jones looked around. "It's a long story, kid. The point is your father and I were appointed to a task force at the request of the Vatican."

"The Vatican?" Frank repeated in surprise.

Jones nodded, dispassionately sipping from the coffee mug. "SPECTRE got privy and has been trying to pick off each member of the task force." Jones glanced at Frank. "Guess the reputation of Fenton's sons as master sleuths have gotten around to SPECTRE if they wanted to kidnap you."

"Where's this monastery you mentioned that's in the telegram?" Joe asked.

"Cyprus. My hunch it's where they're keeping the Shroud," Jones replied.

"Who?" Frank asked.

Jones gave him a look. "SPECTRE! Aren't you kids detectives?" Shaking his head, he pulled a book from the stack on the table.

"We don't understand, Dr. Jones." Joe said slowly. "Are you saying Blofeld has the Shroud of Turin?"

Jones waved down a waitress as he turned pages of the book. He waited for her to refill his coffee mug before answering. "That's exactly what I'm sayin', kid."

"But," Frank wondered, confused, "How do you know that?"

"Because," Jones sardonically answered. "I gave it to them."

"What?!" Frank and Joe asked in unison.

Jones sighed. Frank and Joe desperately waited for an answer. Instead, Dr. Jones flipped through the book. "You know, since I became dean I had more time to myself. So I wrote this book." Jones held up the cover. It featured the famous black-and-white negative photographic image of the face on the cloth of the Turin Shroud.

" _The Shroud: Relic, Art, or the World's First Photograph?_ " Frank read aloud. "Can you please tell us what you meant by you giving SPECTRE the Shroud?"

"All right," Jones complied. "But then I have a plane to catch." Jones sat back in his chair. "It was 1938, just before the Nazis invaded Czechoslovakia. My father, a friend of mine named Sallah, and a dear mentor to me, Marcus, were on an archaeological expedition in Hatay."

"The Canyon of the Crescent Moon!" Joe uttered in hushed awe. "I read it in _National Geographic_."

Jones nodded. "On our way home, at the port of Iskenderun, we were approached by representatives of Prince Umberto. Ever hear of him?"

Frank thought for a moment. "The deposed king of Italy? He's now in exile in…Portugal is it?"

"Very good, kid. You should think about Marshall for school," Jones said with a grin.

Frank shrugged. "I've got some other offers on the table."

"What did the prince want with you?" Joe asked impatiently.

"We had been longtime friends. He knew Mussolini and Hitler were colluding for a fascist takeover of Italy. That meant destruction of anything that wasn't of their liking—or possession of whatever they could use to their advantage. The prince asked my father and I to transport the Shroud to a secure location until the war was over."

"But," Joe said thoughtfully, "Why would Prince Umberto ask you to do that? Shouldn't that have been the chief prelate in Turin? The Shroud's in the Turin Cathedral, isn't it?"

"Actually, the Shroud's technical owner is King Umberto. To this day. It's owned by the House of Savoy. Has been since 1453."

Frank and Joe were hooked. "We had no idea!" Frank said.

"So you actually have seen the Shroud?" Joe asked.

"Oh, sure," Jones answered. "My father and I took it from Turin in an unmarked delivery truck across Italy to a Benedictine monastery for safekeeping." Jones paused, shook his head. Then he continued, saddened. "Blofeld found out. Assassinated all the monks at the monastery and took the Shroud. This was right at the end of the war before he fled to South America."

"You couldn't stop him?" Joe inquired.

"My father and I were in Ireland at the time we found out," Jones answered. "Went looking for it every few years now but no dice."

"And all this time everyone thinks the Shroud is in the Turin Cathedral?" Frank asked.

Jones nodded. "Behind lock and key in a safe place, supposedly. It hasn't been publicly shown since '33. The king's ties with the church are strong, hence the Vatican assembling this task force. They believe as do I that something seismic is about to happen with the Shroud."

Joe spoke up. "Why?"

"We got a solid rumor from a defected SPECTRE hood the Shroud is in Cyprus. And," Jones added, "I'm old. This might be my last chance to rescue it."

Frank was studying a full-page image of the Shroud in Jones's book. He gazed at the 14 ft. 5 in. x 3 ft. 7 in. linen cloth that bore the faded outline of a crucified man.

"My father actually knew Secondo Pia," Jones said with a faint smile.

"Who's that?" Joe asked.

"The photographer who first discovered the positive image on the photographic negative," Jones explained. "He was in Turin when Pia took the photos in 1898, a year before I was born."

"So there's more to this image than the naked eye?" Joe responded.

"Much more," Jones said. "There's grave concern Blofeld has been waiting for the right time to use it for his own gain. With his unsuccessful operation in the Bahamas, now might be that time."

The boys continued to pore over the book. "Frank, Joe," Jones finally spoke. "I'm sorry, but I have to get to work. Why don't you head back to the train terminal?"

Suddenly, from behind the trio, Frank and Joe heard a familiar voice. "Breakfast! My favorite morning meal!"

"Chet!" Frank and Joe said in unison.

Chet Morton stood at the entrance to the diner with an enormous smile on his face. Callie Shaw, Chet's sister Iola, and chums Tony Prito, a wiry, olive-skinned young man, and Biff Hooper, a lanky, resourceful friend of the Hardys, all joined him.

"Hey, the calvary is here!" Frank said happily as he greeted Callie with affection. Joe did the same with Iola.

"What brings all of you to Marshall?" Joe said as he surrounded his friends.

"The receptionist at the school said you were with Dr. Jones over here," Callie explained. She caught the nonplussed expression of Jones, still sitting at the table.

Smiling, Iola held up a small luggage bag. "So, Professor Jones," she said, "When's our flight?"


	7. Chapter VII: The Way of the Future

CHAPTER VII

 _The Way of the Future_

Frank and Joe were even more pleasantly surprised to find their longtime friend Phil Cohen awaiting them at curbside of the airport terminal. "Phil, You're not joining us too, are you?" Joe asked, slapping Phil's shoulder in greeting.

"Chet has the power of persuasion, that's for sure," Phil answered, winking at the group's round pal. "But maybe one of you can finally tell me exactly where we're going?"

"Hold on a minute everyone," Jones spoke up as he followed the group of Bayporters into the terminal. "Who said anything about 'we'? At the rate we're going this is turning into a study abroad class. And I don't chaperone. Especially where we're going."

Frank took a step towards the esteemed professor. "Dr. Jones," he answered with a set jaw, "These are our friends, Joe's and mine. Even you have brought friends along on your journeys, you said so yourself. And from the looks of it, you're going to need all the help you can get."

Frank and Jones stared at each other for a long moment. Jones was the first to grin. "Better get your tickets, then."

An hour later, the Bayporters and Jones took their respective seats on the Pan Am Boeing 747-100. "Paging passenger Drollinger," a stewardess was heard on the intercom. "Last call to Athens, now boarding," the voice continued.

Joe was delighted to find himself seated next to Iola. "Athens!" Iola squealed as she buckled her seat belt. "I can't believe my parents allowed for this!"

"I can't believe Dr. Jones allowed for this!" Joe exclaimed in a low voice. "But he must have a lot of respect for Dad to trust us."

"I heard about how you saved Frank," Iola returned, causing Joe to blush. "Guess you're going to need a new bike."

"Gosh, you're right," Joe lightly slapped his palm against his forehead. Absently brushing his blonde hair he added, "Course that was Frank's bike. But don't tell him that."

Iola giggled. She looked back some rows behind her. "Poor Dr. Jones," she said, still giggling.

Joe followed her point. A dour expression seemed permanently stuck on Dr. Jones's face as he sat in the middle aisle seat wedged between Biff Hooper and Chet Morton, both of whom had been endlessly chatting since their wait time at the gate.

Chet tapped the sleeve of Jones's tweed jacket. "Professor," Chet asked, "If I may, the Ark of…"

"It's true."

"Golly," was all Chet could muster in response. He sat in welcomed silence for a few moments. Then he tapped the sleeve again. "Professor," he repeated.

"Now what is it, fella?" Jones growled.

"Why do you think SPECTRE wants the Shroud? To me, if SPECTRE sees itself as a terror—," he suddenly shut his mouth as Jones thrust his index finger to Chet's face.

"Quit saying the name, will ya?" Jones admonished. "Now, I like you, kid. But enough's enough, all right? You can ask me anything you want in ten hours."

"Yes, sir," Chet meekly replied.

Jones rested his head against the seat back, positioning his bucket hat so it slightly covered his eyes.

"Professor?" Chet asked again.

Jones opened his eyes, staring up at the roof of the plane. "No fedora?" Chet inquired innocently. "The pictures I've seen have you wearing one all the time."

Jones closed his eyes again. "Those days are done," he answered flatly. "I am my father's son."

Biff and Chet exchanged glances. They each raised their eyebrows and in unison settled in for a nap themselves. Within minutes, both of their heads drooped onto Jones's shoulders.

After the 747 reached flying altitude, a member of first class peered down the long aisle and studied the youthful Bayporters. He made mental notes of every one, particularly the earnest lads in the red and blue sweaters. When his eyes rested on the snoozing Jones, he smiled an unpleasant, crooked tooth grin. As he returned to the first seat in the first row, a stewardess approached him with a glass of champagne and a copy of _Scientific American_.

"Please let me know what else we can get for you, Mr. Drollinger," she said. "Have a pleasant flight."

Alduous Huxley Drollinger nodded as he sipped his champagne and gazed at the cover of the magazine. It featured a picture of Drollinger himself, arms folded wearing a black turtleneck, standing in front of a desert-like, sun splashed valley. The cover title read, _The Dream of Alduous Drollinger: A Silicon Valley_.

Over the next few hours, the Pan-Am flight crossed the Atlantic, touching down first in London, then Geneva, and setting course for the final leg to Athens. Along the way, Frank and Joe had swapped seats with Callie and Iola so they could sit next together. They pored over Dr. Jones's Shroud book, discussing possible ways in which the image of the man could have been produced on the linen cloth. Occasionally, their friends would join them in a crash course on sindonology, what they learned was the term for studies on the Turin Shroud.

"My concern is that if it's truly been in the hands of the enemy for twenty years," Frank posited, "Who knows what they might have been able to come up with in that time."

"Agreed," Joe said. "Frank, do you think it's good idea our chums came along? Might we be putting them in danger?"

"Maybe," Frank sighed. "At least we'll all get to see Greece together! Only wish Dad could have been with us."

It was then the captain's voice came across the speaker system. "Uh, attention passengers, sorry for the, uh, interruption. We're, uh, currently over Italian, uh, airspace and have been ordered to make an emergency landing. We'll, uh, get back to you with more information. Thank you."

Passengers stirred in confusion at the news. Frank and Joe exchanged dumbfounded glances. Henry Jones slept right through the announcement.

15 minutes later, the Boeing landed at Leonardo da Vinci Airport. "Rome!" Joe exclaimed as he pushed his nose against the windowpane. He leaned over for Iola to peer out the window, who had returned to her seat for landing.

"Incredible," she replied. "Another one of your tricks, Joe Hardy?"

Joe smiled slyly. "Maybe."

The stewardesses directed everyone off the plane. The first was Alduous Drollinger who was demanding to know an explanation from someone, as he had business meetings in Athens that were pressing. He quickly quieted down when a motorcade bearing the yellow and white flags of the Vatican City State pulled up to the tarmac.

A diminutive cardinal emerged from one of the sedans, accompanied by Swiss Guards in their unmistakable blue, red, and yellow uniforms. Callie and Iola gasped at the sight of the guards, all Swiss young men under the age of 25.

The cardinal spoke to the captain of the Pan Am flight, Captain Whelan. The captain then spoke into a bullhorn. "Is Henry Jones from Connecticut present?"

All eyes turned to the man in tweed jacket and bucket hat as he stepped forward. He gestured to Frank and Joe to accompany him. Alduous Drollinger's eyes narrowed at the proceedings.

Jones nodded to the cardinal. "Eminence."

The aged cardinal spoke rapidly in Italian. "Dr. Jones, it is of urgent matter you come with me," he said. "I understand you have the expert American sleuths with you?"

Jones looked to the Hardys. "I used to be good with Italian. Can you help?"

Frank gestured to the crowd of baffled and tired passengers. "Tony!" he called.

Tony Prito trotted over and translated on behalf of the Catholic cardinal. When Jones undertood he answered, "Okay, but my friends come with me," he replied nodding to the Hardys.

"Of course," the cardinal said.

Joe whispered to Tony. "Ask him what might be the trouble?"

Tony gave Joe a look. "Really?" Joe nodded. Tony coughed, and asked the question.

The cardinal was leaning into the car, paused, and turned back. He whispered, "There's been a security breach in the Sistine Chapel. SPECTRE has struck again."


	8. Chapter VIII: Il Divino

CHAPTER VIII

 _Il Divino_

As the Boeing resumed its flight towards Athens, Joe and Frank rode with Jones and the high ranking prelate in the motorcade, whom they were introduced to as Cardinal Geraci.

In the vehicle transporting Callie and Iola and Biff, they met an affable Swiss Guard named Denys Randazzo, who answered the many questions the group had about how someone became a guard.

Tony, Phil and Chet were in the third car driven by a stern, silent member of the Italian Carabinieri and his oily supervisor called Tomasone. Every so often, Tomasone would speak into a lapel microphone in rapid, gruff Italian. The men had banked on the ignorance of the American teenagers in the back seat. They hadn't counted on the bilingual talents of Tony Prito. He made a mental note of what was being discussed.

The motorcade snaked through Rome, the stunning sights decorated with creative holiday decorations. When they crossed the Tiber River, Frank and Joe gazed up at the imposing fortress, Castel Sant'Angelo, recalling from their freshmen history classes the secret tunnel that ran from the fortress to the Vatican.

"Tiberim desilire," Jones murmured as he followed their gaze.

"What's that mean? Joe asked.

"An old phrase from the time of the Empire. It means 'to throw someone into the Tiber'."

Shivers passed through Frank and Joe.

Bypassing Via della Conciliazone, the ostentatious road built by Mussolini leading up to St. Peter's Square, the motorcade wound around the Vatican walls until it reached St. Anne's Gate, a back entrance to the Vatican and the official border between Italy and Vatican City.

Cardinal Geraci, exiting the sedan, surveyed the small cohort gathered at the gate. "Are we all here?" he asked. "Bene," he said. "Follow me."

As they proceeded inside, Tony Prito looked over his shoulder. He watched with concern the oily Tomasone speak _sotto voce_ to an unhappy-looking man in a black cassock.

"Say, Tony," Phil whispered. "What was going on in the ride over?"

"He was talking about someone named Drollinger, whoever that is. I think we have a mole. Let's keep our eyes on him until we have time to update Frank and Joe."

"Roger!" Phil answered.

Cardinal Geraci and an escort of Swiss Guards including Denys Randazzo led the entourage to the Sistine Chapel.

"The break in happened about 2:30 this morning," the cardinal informed the group. "Whoever it was knew their way around in low light conditions."

They reached the two imposing wooden doors leading into the Sistine itself. Guards stood motionless around it. The doors had been damaged nearly beyond repair.

"The doors!" Callie bemoaned. "How could they ruin something so beautiful?"

Chet, who had been awfully quiet, finally managed to speak. "Eminence," he said slowly. "N-none of the art was destroyed, was it?"

Before the cardinal could answer the concerned Chet, Tomasone stepped forward. "Is that all you care about, kid?" he demanded in broken English. "We're lucky nobody was killed!"

"Hey, he didn't mean anything cruel by it!" Biff Hooper spoke up, staring down the middle-aged carabinieri supervisor.

The cardinal's calm voice eased tensions. "That's the first thing I asked myself, young Morton." Chet grinned. "That's what's so puzzling," Geraci continued. "Have a look."

Cardinal Geraci led the group into the surprisingly small but no less stunning Sistine Chapel.

"I don't see any damage," Iola mentioned. The others murmured in agreement.

"Are you positive SPECTRE's involved, Eminence?" Frank asked.

"Yes," Tomasone again interjected. "We found one set of prints. Belongs to a Polish goon named Maslov, an associate of SPECTRE."

"The question remains," Jones sighed. "What were they doing here?"

The group looked around, collectively stumped. Finally, Joe asked, "Why is there a ladder in the corner?"

"Can't imagine that being a permanent fixture in here," Frank quipped.

"That was where the print was discovered," Geraci explained.

The group stared up at the ladder. In the silence, all heard a humming coming from Chet. They turned their heads. "Hmmm," Chet was saying over and over.

"Is there something you'd like to share with the group, Morton?" Jones snarled.

"Quite possibly, Dr. Jones," Morton muttered absently.

Suddenly, Chet climbed the ladder to the balcony halfway up the chapel wall. He gazed across the chapel intently to the other wall where Michelangelo's _Last Judgment_ majestically was displayed. Then he removed from his backup a charcoal reprint of his _Last Judgment_ replica he had been working on in the Morton farm and studied it closely.

"What do you see Chet?" Iola asked excitedly.

Chet then called out breathlessly, "I need a picture of the Shroud, fast!"

Cardinal Geraci turned to a Swiss Guard and barked in Italian, "Get over to the archives and get a copy of the Holy Shroud here pronto!"

Within moments, the Guards had met Chet's request, ushering in a thick hardcover book of art and relics. They flung the glossy pages open to a full-page image of the Shroud. Denys Randazzo hoisted the book up to Chet.

"Eureka!" Chet shouted triumphantly, his voice reverberating across the five hundred year old chapel. "It's the Shroud!" he exclaimed.

Moments later, the others clambered up the ladder and gazed incredulously at the whole of Michelangelo's masterpiece. "I see it quite clearly," Chet explained. "The whole wall is a full-scale recreation of the face on the Shroud! Look in the left corner, isn't that a left eye? Look to the right corner, the gap there, where the angels are? And the nose, the central part of the fresco, the resurrected Christ."

"A bit of a stretch?" Phil Cohen asked dubiously.

Chet answered confidently, "As an art expert, Phil, I'd say it's a clue, don't you see?"

"Eminence," Frank said suddenly, "Who's that figure in the middle holding his own skin?"

"It's the apostle Bartholomew. He was flayed. Michelangelo painted his own face as Bartholomew's. It's one of the most iconic parts of the Shroud."

"There's a reason Michelangelo put his own face on that particular figure," Jones uttered. "What is _Il Divino_ trying to tell us?"

"Where was he flayed?" Joe nearly shouted.

"Why, Armenia. There's a monastery now commemorating his death."

Immediately upon hearing "Armenia," Tomasone and the man in the black cassock made a mad dash out of the chapel.

"Stop them!" Jones shouted.

The Swiss Guards took off after the two as the Bayporters and Jones followed suit. They raced outside the chapel and towards St. Anne's Gate where Tomasone jumped into a sedan and the cassock man disappeared around a corner. At that moment, a group of thugs posing as Carabinieri appeared from the gate's shadows and dismantled the approaching guards.

A chaotic fistfight ensued. In the disorder, Jones was rendered unconscious and hoisted into the same sedan as Tomasone. The silent, stern driver immediately drove away.

"Doctor Jones!" Frank shouted amid the rumble. "Joe, we can't let the car get away!"

The two ran out to the main street with some of the Guards. To each of the Hardys' dismay, the car had disappeared into the Roman traffic. More despairing, two armed men bore down on speeding motor bikes headed directly towards the group, prepared it seemed to plow into them. The one leading gave an evil grin.

He wore a black cassock.

Frank and Joe braced themselves as the motorcyclists closed in on them. "Get out of the way, Joe!" Frank shouted just as he felt the gush of wind and the smell of gasoline envelope him.

Frank had darted out of the path of the first motorcycle while simultaneously tugging at anything he could get his hands on. He managed to grab hold of a fistful of the pursuer's black cassock, but his attempt to pull him down or disrupt him in any way failed. He was going too fast.

With a yell, Frank let go, spinning around. The cyclist continued down the alley, but stopped, reversing.

"Behind you!" Joe shouted, ducking out of harm's way and moving the others to safety. The Swiss Guards had ultimately overpowered the thugs, who scattered.

Frank sprinted down the street, hoping to distract the assailants from the others. While he was no match on foot to outrun the two, Frank reasoned he could have more leverage somewhere more crowded.

He was right. No sooner did he sprint, arms flailing into the intersection, did a number of vehicles instantly slam on their breaks. Among them was the motor scooter of Giuseppe Salvatore, a delivery boy for a nearby meat market.

Salvatore attempted to steer around the crazed looking American, but Frank was ready for him. Frank gently nudged him but enough to send the boy flying off the scooter landing onto Via Sistina on his backside. Frank hopped on the bike and quickly tossed the meat packages from the basket attached to the handlebars to the boy before himself darting away from the stopped traffic.

The small traffic jam momentarily separated himself from his hunters. It was all the time Frank needed to gain some headway as he coasted along on Via di Porta Pinciana. But no sooner did he allow himself to get comfortable than he heard two accelerating motors behind him. He quickly glanced back and groaned. His pursuers suddenly opened fire at the 18-year-old!

Frank hunkered down further on his bike as he saw an opening ahead. It was a small alley that took him directly into the popular Piazza del Popolo.

The crowd should play to my advantage, Frank told himself.

Instead, no sooner did Frank go blazing through the crowded piazza did he hear the wailing of sirens directly behind him. He glanced back. Now the police in addition to the stalking motorcyclists were chasing him!

 _If I manage to get any more attention_ , he said to himself, _I might be putting even more people in jeopardy_.

Nevertheless, Frank continued speeding along on Giuseppe Salvatore's motor scooter, crossing the River Tiber on Ponte Regina Margherita. After he passed the Supreme Court building, the second assailant cut off Frank from another direction. The surprise moved distracted him, and with the second goon only inches next to him, attempting to hit his back wheel, and the other goon in the black cassock trailing behind, Frank was trapped.

As he slammed into the rail alongside Piazza Adriana, everything went black. But only for a moment. Frank found he had been thrown from Salvatore's bike over the barrier and had landed in Adrian Park. Shaking off the pain, he noticed that both of his pursuers were climbing the fence, leaving their bikes on the sidewalk.

Frank quickly scrambled to his feet and turned to run in the opposite direction. There he gazed up at the circular, towering Castel Sant'Angelo. His pursuers nipped at his heels. Frank broke through a cordoned off gate in the rear, quickly ascending the ancient stone steps.

Frank flew open another gate at the top of the steps, finding himself on the roof. His attackers wasted no time in jumping him. For the next few moments, Frank took on the two mysterious men who sought to kill him and his friends. He could tell by their agility they were only a little older than himself. But they were not as equipped in one-on-one fighting. The boxing lessons Frank and Joe took in the converted gym in their garage paid off.

Frank was able to subdue one after a punch knocked the man unconscious. But the man in the black cassock would not let up. He grabbed Frank by the throat, at the same time as he produced a knife. As the cassock man went to plunge his knife between Frank's ribs, Frank elbowed him. Momentarily stunned, Frank seized on the moment, landing two powerful punches to the man's face. Frank studied the actor: blue eyes, dark hair, and a three-day old beard. There seemed nothing priestly about him.

Gripping the man with both hands, he glared at him. The man glared back.

"Are you going to tell me anything?"

"Not on your life."

The cassock man kicked Frank in the thigh. Suddenly Frank was against the ancient wall. Gunfire then opened up from the man who was hitherto unconscious. It seemed to make no difference that he was firing in the same area as his colleague.

"What are you doing, Visconti?!" the cassock man shouted.

Frank took the moment, flipped the cassock man off him and rolled out of the way. Visconti, attempting to gun Frank down, instead struck the cassock man in the heart. He slumped to the ground.

Frank seized on Visconti, grabbing the small weapon, flinging it away. The two, locked in a tussle, neared the ledge before Frank twisted Visconti around. With a punch, Visconti went wheeling over the ledge and into the Tiber River below!

Frank peered over the wall. "Tiberim desilire," he said to himself, panting.


	9. Chapter IX: Homecoming

CHAPTER IX

 _Homecoming_

Joe and the gang were relieved when Frank returned safely from his tussle atop Castel Sant'Angelo, even if they remained concerned over the kidnapping of Dr. Jones. From a series of photographs Frank confirmed the identities of his assailants. Italian police informed Cardinal Geraci and the group the thugs were low-level operatives for an American businessman, Alduous Drollinger.

Tony Prito and Phil Cohen exchanged glances. "Frank, Joe," Tony interrupted. "The carabinieri officer, Tomasone, was referencing this Drollinger during the drive to the Vatican."

"What did he say?" Joe asked with earnest.

"Something about boots on the ground. Maybe this is what he meant?" Tony offered.

"Either way, not only is there an informant from the carabinieri, but also within the church, Eminence," Frank said gravely.

"I've felt something awry for some time now," Cardinal Geraci admitted.

"Something's nagging at me," Callie spoke up.

"What's that?" Chet asked.

"Why would SPECTRE even need to break into the Sistine Chapel?"

"You're right," Joe said, fingers clicking. "It's as if they learned about the secret code left by Michelangelo and tried to decipher it themselves."

"When they couldn't," Biff added. "They sent Tomasone and the black cassock man in with us to try to learn more."

"So why would they need to know the Armenia clue?" Iola queried.

For a minute nobody spoke. Then, slowly, Frank said, "Eminence, might we be able to have access to the Secret Archives?"

Cardinal Geraci raised an eyebrow. "It's something of course not granted to everyone. But seeing you _are_ the sons of Fenton Hardy, I'm sure we can make an exception."

"What are we looking for?" Tony Prito asked.

"We need to know the story of the Shroud like the back of our hand," Frank said grimly.

"I have another request," Chet piped up. "I hear the food in Italy is pretty good? Might we sample some of the best delicatessens, Eminence?"

The group laughed. After a hearty meal of chicken carbonara, fresh bread, and salad, Cardinal Geraci and guard Denys Randazzo escorted the Bayporters to the Vatican Secret Archives.

Over the next several hours, the group had full access to the trove of information on the Shroud. Cardinal Geraci ensured snacks and water were continually brought to the group. Frank eventually asked for a portable chalk board to be wheeled into the study area.

Iola drew up the timeline of the Shroud's journey as it became clear to the group. "Assuming its authenticity," Biff read aloud, "It left Jerusalem to Edessa, modern-day Turkey."

Iola wrote the cities down on the board. "But in those days," Phil said, "Edessa was known to be in the Armenian Highlands."

"Hence the clue of Michelangelo's coded message," Callie mentioned.

"It remained in Edessa for a long time," Joe reported. "Even falling under protection of the Muslims, who recognized its importance to Christians."

Through its research the group determined the path the Shroud took from Edessa was to Constantinople, the sumptuous capital of Eastern Christendom. "At the time of the Crusades and the sack of Constantinople," Chet stated, "the Shroud disappeared, believed to be protected," he looked up from his notes.

"Yes?" Iola asked impatiently at the board.

"Protected by the Templar Knights!" The group whistled. "Then it went to France."

"In 1464, the Shroud becomes the property of the House of Savoy," Frank commented.

"Who still owns it today, technically," Joe added.

The brothers nodded in unison.

"Finally in 1578 the Shroud is moved to Turin," Phil noted.

"Where it stayed until World War II," Chet sat back in his chair. "Until Doctor Jones and his father transported the Shroud to the Benedictine Monastery in Naples before SPECTRE stole it a few years later."

"Naples!" Tony Prito's eyes widened. "Where in Naples?" The Prito family was from Naples, and Tony even named his motor boat back in Bayport the _Napoli_.

The group scoured their notes for the name of the Benedictine monastery. Cardinal Geraci was brought in and asked the question. "It's never been officially documented for security reasons," Geraci said. "But it's the St. Patricia monastery."

"St. Patricia," Tony muttered to himself. "Eminence, I might be mistaken, but I believe my great uncle is a monk there!" Some skeptical mutters came from the group. "Seriously! Maybe he was present when SPECTRE seized the Shroud! I know he's been there forever."

"It might be a wild goose chase, but it would be worth investigating how the Shroud was taken," Joe postulated. "Maybe your great-uncle remembers something."

"How long would it take to get to Naples?" Frank asked the cardinal.

"I can get you there within a couple of hours," Geraci said, gesturing to Denys Randazzo.

A private plane transported the group south of Rome to Naples, on the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea. There was little time to admire the landscape, however, as the group bartered with a taxi to transport everyone to the St. Patricia Monastery, located just outside the city. Flying down Traversa Monterusciello, bouncing up and down in the cab, the group arrive at the tranquil monastery in the late afternoon.

Cardinal Geraci introduced the group to Abbot Andrew. Indeed, Tony's great-uncle, Alberto, was among the aged monks in residence. When Frank and Joe inquired about the Shroud, Abbot Andrew's face clouded.

"I'm not sure I understand?" he asked sternly. Frank, Joe and the cardinal noticed the change expression within the Abbot.

"We understand it was stolen from here at the end of the war."

"That's right," Andrew said. "I was just a young friar at the time. I saw it all happen. Armed men storm in and demanded the turnover of the Shroud we were holding in our reliquary chapel. Friars were murdered, you know."

Phil Cohen and Chet stood off to the side. "Something fishy's askew," Chet muttered. Phil did a double take at the strange expression before adding, "Indeed."

Tony, after visiting with his great-uncle in the parlor area, waved over those who could see him. Callie and Biff trotted over. "Say, I think we've just found something."

"What do you mean?" Callie asked.

"My uncle spoke to me," Tony began. "But this is a cloistered monastery."

"Cloistered?" Biff asked.

"Means they don't talk, don't leave. They just harvest the fields and pray, basically. But my great-uncle spoke to me. Turns out they're only allowed to speak on Sundays."

"Well, what did he say?"

"There's an underground chamber through the winery. Something very important is down there."

"I'll get the others," Callie promptly said.

Pulling Frank and Joe away from conversing with Abbot Andrew, they brought the Hardys and others up to speed. "That abbot sure doesn't want to talk about the Shroud," Joe noted.

"Chet and Callie, stay here with the cardinal and abbot. Let's see what Tony's great-uncle means by underground chamber."

Chet and Callie hung back. "Where are your friends?" the abbot asked suspiciously. Chet and Callie innocently shrugged their shoulders.

Tony led the group to the underground chantry and produced keys given him by Brother Alberto. They walked into the antechamber, a simple round room built out of stone. In the middle was a casket.

"Who's b-buried in there?" Phil Cohen asked tentatively.

"Whoever it is, my great-uncle wants us to have a look," Tony said.

With Biff's help, Frank and Joe hoisted open the sarcophagus's opening. Everyone peered over the opening. Joe shone a flashlight inside.

There was a collective gasp. _The Bayporters were staring at the actual Shroud of Turin!_


	10. Chapter X: An Intense Burst of Light

CHAPTER X

 _An Intense Burst of Light_

Silence befell the group as they studied the haunting, unfurled fabric before them. They could clearly see on the upper fibrils of the herringbone-patterned linen cloth the extremely faded image of a tortured man, replete with bloodstains. Joe pointed out the distracting parallel burn marks, which he reported from his research was a result of a fire in 1532.

"F-fellows," Chet stammered. "Have we s-stumbled upon SPECTRE's headquarters?"

"That's enough speculation," a voice commanded Chet from the chamber's entrance. "Back away from the relic."

The silhouettes of three figures standing at the bright doorway temporarily blinded the Bayporters. As their eyes became adjusted to the light, they yearned to see who had interrupted them. It was Abbot Andrew, flanked by Cardinal Geraci, and a stooped over, limping Brother Alberto. Abbot Andrew shut the stone entrance to the chamber.

"Uncle Alberto!" Tony called.

"I believe we're owed some explanation?" Iola asked.

"And maybe you can also confirm for us that Doctor Jones is okay?" Frank added.

Abbot Andrew was momentarily taken aback. " _Henry_ Jones?"

Before anyone could answer, Cardinal Geraci, mouth agape, staggered towards the Shroud. "Th-this m-must be the duplicate?! It's just like the original!"

Abbot Andrew sighed, glancing at Brother Alberto, who nodded solemnly. "Eminence," he began, "I'm afraid I owe even you an explanation. I'm afraid that what you see before you is in fact the Holy Shroud itself, brought here by Dr. Henry Jones, Sr. and his son in 1938. It has been in our possession for the last 28 years."

Frank and Joe exchanged dumbfounded glances. Geraci's brow furrowed. "But the report of theft?"

"Brother Alberto and I were the only survivors of Ernst Blofeld gunning down our fellow monks when he invaded the monastery at the end of the war. Nobody refused to tell him where we kept the authentic Holy Shroud. So we gave him the duplicate, and then alerted even the highest ranks in the Vatican he actually took the true relic." Abbot Andrew bowed. "I do not expect you to forgive me of my deceit."

There was complete silence in the chamber. "This whole time," Geraci stammered. "All the worry, all the people who risked their lives combing the earth to find it," he trailed off.

Frank said quietly, "And now SPECTRE knows it has a forged copy. It's not safe here any longer, Abbot."

"Where could it be safe, though?" Callie thought aloud. "SPECTRE won't stop until it's completely in their possession."

"This whole time," Cardinal Geraci muttered again, before finally looking up at the repentant eyes of Abbot Andrew. "Absolutely brilliant, Andrew! Absolutely brilliant."

The abbot's eyes popped. Then he gestured to Alberto. "It was Brother Alberto's idea really."

"That's my great-uncle!" Tony piped up proudly.

"But the young Hardy is right. It's not safe here indeed," the cardinal stated.

Joe confidently said, "We'll take it. We'll take it and we must rescue Doctor Jones. Who knows what they'll do with him. Eminence, may we request three identical trucks, and three identical caskets?" The group looked at Joe, confused. He smiled at Iola.

"Certainly," the tiny Italian cardinal acknowledged. "I will contact the local chancery."

Frank queried, "How do you suppose SPECTRE discovered it was a fake?"

Abbot Andrew said, "Because they probably photographed it. No attempt to duplicate the Turin Shroud has been able to achieve the image visible in the photographic negative."

"So how is it possible that image got onto the cloth before photography in the first place?" Biff inquired. "There are no paints on the image, correct? Was it the image weaved onto the cloth?"

"No," the abbot said. "Because from studying the photographic image, you can see even the metacarpal bones of the man."

Callie then said, "So if we separate the Shroud as a piece of art from a scientific item, how was this image produced?"

"I'll answer that," Cardinal Geraci replied. "At this point, we believe the only way this image could be imprinted on the cloth without scorching it was via an extremely quick but powerful burst of vacuum ultraviolet radiation."

"Say what?" Chet's head was spinning.

"Light," Phil Cohen said simply.

"Right, my son," the cardinal said. "An intense burst of light."

Frank thought a moment. "And that's what exactly what SPECTRE is trying to do."

"I'm still not sure I totally understand," Tony Prito admitted.

"Same here," Joe added grimly. "But that doesn't mean they're not going to stop looking for it."

Outside, in a verdant, obscure part of the monastery, the group gingerly brought the sarcophagus containing the Shroud out of the chamber. In the meanwhile, Cardinal Geraci arranged for the delivery of three nondescript, identical trucks. He also suggested a Swiss Guard escort.

"No," Joe said adamantly. "Too risky. You must trust us, Eminence. But please, might you be able to retain secrecy on this operation?"

"Well, I will have to notify the Holy Father, of course," Geraci replied. "And certainly King Umberto, as it is his rightful possession at the moment."

At that moment, a monk from the monastery bell tower feverishly rang the bell.

"Meal time?" Chet asked with a brightened complexion.

"Joe," Frank said in a low voice. "Where exactly are we transporting the Shroud?"

"Where it belongs," Joe stated. "Back to Turin. It's the best fortified place to protect it form SPECTRE. Swiss Guards and everything."

Biff Hooper and Tony Prito scurried down a hillside towards the Hardys. "Gents," Tony shouted, "You wouldn't believe what's coming up the way!"

"Our trucks?" Frank asked hopefully.

"Not quite," Biff panted. "It's an Alfa Romeo 800, Frank. Huge. It also has an octopus symbol on the side."

Frank and Joe grimaced. Callie, glancing at Chet, spoke up. "We've seen that before."

Chet immediately whirled around. "Eminence!" he shouted. "Where's our trucks?!"


	11. Chapter XI: Through the Italian Pines

CHAPTER XI

 _Through the Italian Pines_

Three nondescript white trucks weaved their way out of the monastic grounds just as the hulking Alfa Romeo 800 arrived on its premises. SPECTRE agents, quickly realizing what was unfolding, hastened back into the vehicle to give chase. Their leader was none other than the Carabinieri mole, Tomasone.

Frank drove the first truck, with Joe and Chet. Phil Cohen, Tony Prito, and Iola rode in the second. Biff and Callie rounded out the trio of trucks. No one, except Joe and Frank, knew which truck contained the casket that held the authentic Shroud. They soon found themselves on Viale S. Ignazio di Loyola, flanked by a sprawling, mountainous forest on one side. On the other, a sloping and unkind-looking ravine.

In the SPECTRE truck, agents Visconti and Muldoon, the hapless goons who tried to procure Frank for collateral, rode with Tomasone. Having escaped Barmet Bay a couple days earlier, they both struggled to stay awake. Tomasone shook his head in disgust. Tomasone's eyes narrowed as he sharply round a bend. He got on his radio, a short-wave transmitter, and spoke rapidly in Italian.

"Manfredonia, do you copy?"

After a cackle of a pause, a reply from a toneless, lifeless voice. "Go ahead."

"What's your current location?"

"Still where you told me," the voice of Manfredonia replied. "The overpass."

"They're three kilometers away."

"Something feels wrong, Frank," Joe found himself saying in the first truck, to Chet's dismay. "Maybe I shouldn't have suggested this."

"It's not you," Frank assured his brother. "It's almost as if SPECTRE has been on our heels this whole time, waiting for us to lead them to the prize. We just have to stay one pace ahead of them."

Frank noted an approaching overpass in the distance, the only one of its kind he had seen. His hands gripped the steering wheel. Here they were, the Hardys from Bayport. Three trucks, two decoys, and the Shroud of Turin. He was wondering how impressed Callie was at the moment.

Such foolhardy thoughts lasted only a moment when he heard the first rifle shot, then the second. Quickly glancing up at the overpass, he could see a figure taking aim and firing directly at their small convoy. Frank instinctively swerved out of the way as he passed underneath.

"Look out!" Tony yelled in the second truck. Somehow, the bullet shattered the windshield but bypassed any of the passengers. From the Alfa Romeo, Tomasone saw the middle truck violently swerve to the left, nearly out of control. Glass had shattered, stabbing Tony in the arm.

"We have to bail!" Phil yelled as the truck caromed off the road. The three youths tumbled out of the truck before it rumbled off the ledge and into the ravine below. A fireball erupted.

Tomasone slammed on his brakes of the Alfa Romeo and pulled off to the side. Manfredonia quickly grabbed his rifle case and sprinted away from position. Biff and Callie quickly collected the stranded friends from the second truck and proceeded driving. Tony was bleeding profusely.

Tomasone helplessly watched the fire and resultant smoke. It was not what he wanted to happen. The vehicle was destroyed, and with it, whatever was inside. Including, possibly, the Shroud of Turin. How would Tomasone explain that to his superiors, including Blofeld? Tomasone radioed Manfredonia. "Current location?" he asked gruffly.

Tomasone could hear the wind whipping around Manfredonia when he replied. "I'm getting out of here, Lieutenant. I think I might have destroyed the relic!"

"That wasn't the truck," Tomasone calmly replied. "It has to be with the Hardys. But no more accidents. We just want the Shroud, no undue attention."

"Roger," Manfredonia replied, breathing easier now. "Where do we rendezvous?"

"I'll radio you tonight. But we need another form of surveillance. My cover is far too conspicuous. Over and out."

Tomasone noted they had sped past a hotel a few kilometers back. He reversed his vehicle and proceeded back towards Naples, hoping neither of the Hardys would notice.

Callie Shaw saw the last of Tomasone's Alfa Romeo truck's taillights disappear behind the bend. Their truck met up with the Hardys. "Tony is hurt!" Iola shouted.

"Just follow us," Frank advised. Phil had ripped off his sweater and wrapped it as a tourniquet on Biff's arm. They, too, reversed the trucks and proceeded back in the direction they came, towards Naples.

Tomasone hastily parked his pickup outside the Aston Hotel, just off the road, and bounded inside. "Wait there!" he pointed to his henchmen, who happily continued napping.

Inside, the pleasant porter smiled at the disheveled lieutenant. "Checking out, I presume?"

"No," Tomasone panted, "I need to make an urgent phone call."

"Private matter?"

"Yes!" Tomasone shouted, surprising guests enjoying their buffet dinner. "It's an urgent matter directly concerning King Umberto!"

The porter nodded. "I see. I only ask because we have two distinct phone booth units, one for public calls, one for priv—…"

"Where?" Tomasone decried. "I said this was _urgent_!"

Finally shown the private booth, Tomasone hastily turned the rotary dial. "Come on, come on," he muttered to himself.

"Pronto?" an uncertain, low voice answered.

"It's Tomasone."

There was silence on the other end. Finally, "The master is meditating."

Tomasone rolled his eyes. "A message then."

"Proceed. With caution."

Tomasone took a deep breath. "Package discovered. Air assistance requested."

"10-20?"

Tomasone related the coordinates. "Subjects are headed north to Aversa."

A pause. Then, the line disconnected.

Chagrined and not a little nervous, Tomasone exited the booth, passed the porter who frowned at Tomasone's sudden passive demeanor, and walked out into the approaching darkness. No sooner did he step out than he froze. Two white trucks rumbled by on their way back to Naples. Callie Shaw, spotting Tomasone's Alfa Romeo as the one that had been observing them, waved at the lieutenant and his luckless cronies as the vehicles disappeared.

Grimacing, Tomasone ran back into the hotel.

In the first Alfa Romeo truck, Joe did not allow himself to feel superior at Tomasone's misfortune. The transporting of the Shroud had been a disaster to this point. "Well," Chet finally asked, "What do we do?"

"I completely forgot about Dr. Jones's book on the Shroud," Joe said through grit teeth.

"So did I," Frank nodded knowingly.

"We'll have to get to a hospital for Tony's arm," Chet interjected.

"We're not going to the hospital," the Hardys said in unison.

"What do you mean?"

"In the book, Dr. Jones talks about a monastery, unaffiliated with the Roman church," Frank explained. "There, Tony can get help. And you can get supper. And they've been a big help to Jones in the past, I understand. So they should help us."

"Who?" Chet asked.

"The Brotherhood of the Cruciform Sword."


	12. Chapter XII: Mare Nostra

CHAPTER XII

 _Mare Nostra_

The Brotherhood of the Cruciform Sword monastery, tucked south of Naples outside Catanzaro on the coast of the Ionian Sea, resembled less a traditional monastic site that populated the whole of Italy than a foreboding Romanian castle.

"What's so special about this place?" Phil asked, a little concerned.

"It was featured in a few pages in Dr. Jones's book on the Shroud," Frank explained. "The professor cited the order as integral in the race for the Holy Grail in 1938 that pitted the Joneses against the Nazis."

Joe added, "Jones met them once again in his work in recovering the Turin Shroud in the late 1940s, but as his quest turned up empty handed he never saw them again after that."

"So this could be a trap for all we know," Biff deadpanned.

"Yes," Frank replied simply.

A few guards suspiciously watched the Hardy convoy approach the wrought iron gates. The monastery loomed on a bluff, its steeple punctuating the darkness. As everyone emerged from the vehicles, Joe called the gang into a circle. "We're not sure whether we can trust the Cruciform Sword brotherhood, but they're the best chance we got right now," Joe admitted.

"We realize we've brought you into more danger than we anticipated," Frank continued, noting Tony's injured arm. "If any of you want to turn back, you can certainly take one of the vehicles back to the airport."

Nobody moved, each exchanging glances. Iola said, "We've got this far. If we don't stop SPECTRE from getting the Shroud then we've failed!"

Frank and Joe appreciated Iola's sentiments, although secretly they knew the group's greatest dangers lay ahead of them. With Biff and Chet guarding the Shroud casket, the Bayporters approached the guards. Tony translated, explaining to them the nature of their visit. "Is there anyone who might be able to be of assistance?" he concluded his introduction.

The guards spoke to each other in a language unfamiliar to any of the youths. To Frank it sounded almost Basque. Finally, one spoke in Italian, "Are these boys related to the American detective?"

Tony nodded vigorously. "You speak of Fenton Hardy, from Bayport, U.S.A.," he answered. "Yes, these are his sons," he nodded to Frank and Joe.

The guards excitedly responded, "Perfecto!" and greeted Frank and Joe with much attention. A horse-drawn, medieval-looking cart transported the group from the entrance gates up the winding dirt road to the monastery proper. "We have been much fans of your father," the guards explained during the transport up the road. "But we've also been reading about your own adventures with equal thrill!"

The group was introduced to Tahir, the grand knight of the brotherhood. As Tony's arm was tended to, over a simple meal of rice and cod, Tahir explained the origins of the Brotherhood of the Cruciform Sword. "It is not associated with the Latin Rite," he mentioned, "but one that merges Arabic, Christian, and Jewish origins. Our prime focus has been the preservation of the relics from the Holy Land."

With great care Tahir and his fellow knights studied the Shroud image in the possession of the Hardy clan. They spent a few moments venerating it. "It would be worth your knowing," Tahir said in a quiet sanctuary where the Shroud was studied under candlelight, "that we owe our existence to the former Knights Templar."

"The same knights who were in possession of the Shroud in the 1200s?" Chet asked with bated breath.

"My full name is Tahir de Molay," the grand knight answered, nodding.

"As in Jacques de Molay?" Frank asked. "The Templar grand master who was burned at the stake in 1314?"

Again Tahir solemnly nodded. "The Knights Templar were ruined over accusations we worshipped something other than the divine," he explained to a wrapt audience. "That we worshipped a bearded head." Tahir pointed to the face on the Shroud. "Yet it was this very bearded head we worshipped."

"Grand Master," a knight appeared at the doorway. Everyone looked over at the youthful face. "It's time."

"Proceed," Tahir responded, who then ordered the casket to be closed. There was a sudden burst of movement to and fro. "What's going on?" Callie asked, perturbed.

As fellow Cruciform knights mobilized, Tahir led the group down a catacomb-like tunnel. "We vowed to the Pope of Rome, and to the deposed king of Italy," Tahir explained, speaking rapidly, "That whenever the day comes when we see the Shroud again, we will return it to the rightful owners."

Joe broke in. "But to Turin, right?"

Tahir quickly shook his head, as they turned a corner leading down another passageway. "Such an event cannot pass without pomp and ceremony," he answered, flashing a fleeting smile. "Without acknowledging history."

"So our job is done?" Biff asked.

"Far from it," Tahir replied, gesturing for the group to descend down a long, narrow staircase. Each Bayporter looked at the other with not a little trepidation until Frank and Joe quickly took to the steps.

When they reached the cavernous bottom of the stone staircase, the group nearly bumped into each other as they stared out at the sight before him. _The staircase had led to an underground river!_ Knights of the Cruciform Sword had prepped a handful of motorboats for transport. On one of them was the carefully protected Turin Shroud.

"You don't say," Tony gawked at the sight. He nudged Frank. "We've been on a lot of boating trips, but nothing like this!"

"I'll say," Frank agreed.

"Where does this lead?" Iola asked Tahir, who was already climbing into one of the vessels, helping the Bayporters onto the boats. "The sea?"

The vessels starting setting out along the river surrounded by the echoing cavern below sea level as Tahir answered. "Better," he said. "The Holy Land."

"Jerusalem?" Phil Cohen asked, stunned. "But what of the Mediterranean?"

Tahir smiled. "You're underneath it," he replied. " _This_ is our sea."


	13. Chapter XIII: Vortex

CHAPTER XIII

 _Vortex_

For the next few hours, the travelers of the subterranean river system below the floor of the Mediterranean Sea marveled at their experience. Tahir explained the waterway was likely first discovered by the Phoenicians. "Some fleeing Carthagians escaping from Rome's invasion of the city also employed it. Later, refugees from the Crusades used it for safe transport between city-states," Tahir continued. "Which is how the Templars discovered it."

"So this isn't the first time the Shroud has been on such a voyage?" Frank quipped.

"Probably not, Frank," Tahir agreed. "We'll be entering a natural tributary in about 50 miles," the grand master announced to the rest of the group.

"What will be doing once we arrive in Jerusalem?" Callie called out from a nearby boat.

"We will be met by the exiled king, Umberto, and the bishop of Rome, or at least his representatives," Tahir called. "A celebration of safe return of the Shroud, at the place where it first originated. And your mission is then complete."

"There's something still troubling me, Tahir," Joe said slowly.

"Yes, Joe?" Tahir asked, turning to his boat mate.

"SPECTRE's a terrorist organization, not an occult. Or are they?"

Tahir shrugged. "We treat them the same way. Iconoclasts seeking to pulverize culture one way or the other, terrorists or what have you."

"Exactly," Joe answered snapping his fingers. "Dr. Jones would tell you even the Nazis would not go so far as to 'pulverize' relics. I read in _National Geographic_ time and again how his whole career has been the preservation of the relics from evildoers."

"Even your Brotherhood of the Cruciform Sword was sworn to protect the Grail," Frank added.

"Go on," Tahir encouraged.

"SPECTRE has had an egg on their face since Abbot Andrew duped the world into thinking they controlled the Shroud. So Blofeld's still in the dark about the truth of the cloth," Joe reasoned, trying to work out his thoughts.

"I think what Joe is trying to say," Frank spoke up, "Is that maybe it's not for occultist purposes, but scientific ones that Blofeld wants the Shroud. Sure, possession of it would give SPECTRE much geopolitical leverage," he admitted. "But more importantly it would give him access to unlimited scientific testing."

"A heathen with no care for the image itself," Tahir grumbled. "If I understand you correctly," Tahir then said, "he wants to dissect the Shroud."

Joe nodded. "He wants to find out its age. To determine if whatever he's planning is worth it."

Chet, who was in the same boat, said, "Because Blofeld wouldn't care at all if it was some Leonardo Da Vinci-Chet Morton artistic creation, for instance," he paused, waiting for a laugh. Tahir, instead, was silent. Joe nodded at Chet approvingly.

"No, young Morton, he wouldn't bother with a forgery. He's trying to determine if it's _acheiropoeita_ ," Tahir finally murmured.

"I-I'm sorry, what?" Chet queried, moving his mouth to sound out the word.

"It's Greek," Tahir explained. "It means 'not made by human hand'."

"I thought of something!" Phil Cohen exclaimed from the other boat. "Carbon dating!" the keen youth called out. "Maybe Blofeld wants to Carbon date the Shroud."

"It's possible, Philip, yes. Of course that would burn up the fabric, but he doesn't care about that," Tahir rationalized. "If he does, he would need to take samples from different parts of the Shroud, likely from the center of the cloth."

"Why the middle?" Chet asked.

"Because the Shroud has been patched and repatched ad nauseum over the centuries. Look at the drawings depicting showings of the Shroud, all the fingers grasping the Shroud edges as they hoist it up. Such contamination will likely impact any dating."

A rumble was heard above the cavern. The group suddenly looked up. The silence passed. "We're likely nearing the Port of Said," Tahir explained.

For awhile, nobody spoke, until Frank asked, "Do you think it's authentic, Tahir?"

Tahir shrugged. "Is it the burial cloth of the Nazarene? It is either a miracle or a profound anonymous masterpiece never since duplicated in art or science. Amazing, isn't it," Tahir added, "that only until modern photography do we uncover hidden secrets of the Shroud? As if a photograph from the past was waiting for us to catch up with it."

At the other boat, Tony turned to Phil. "What made you think of the Carbon dating?"

Phil replied, opening his backsack, "I read it here. Found it on the plane," he produced a _Scientific American_ magazine.

"Phil," Tony excitedly squealed, pointing to the cover, "Alduous Drollinger?! The man Tomasone was speaking of in the motorcade on the way into Rome! He was on the plane!"

"I almost forgot," Phil bemoaned. "Yes, it was the profile on Drollinger in which Carbon-dating is mentioned. He's been working with scientists at his Silicon Valley on numerous projects."

"It's too coincidental," Phil answered as he looked through the magazine. "We're going to have to—" he was cut off by a yelp from in front.

"Look out!" Iola shouted from another boat. Phil and Tony quickly glanced ahead of them. Tahir's boat, leading the caravan, was swaying violently back and forth.

"It's the tectonic plates below us," Tahir shouted. "Hold on to something!"

"Hold on to something!" Joe related and the directive was passed down to the other boats.

"Is it an earthquake?!" Frank demanded as the swaying and a new rumbling noise grew louder. "Or is that Port of Said as well?"

"Earthquakes down this far are, how do you Americans say?, a penny a dozen?"

"Not interested in your money, Grand Master!" Chet yelled as a surge of water cascaded across the flimsy boats, drenching the travelers.

"Protect the Shroud!" Joe pointed to the undulating casket. A horde of knights dove upon it, determined not to move despite the violent fluctuation. But the tremblor continued unabated, the boats tossed about as if in a thunderstorm at sea.

"Tahir," Frank called, soaked in prehistoric water, "What's that ahead?!"

"It's the tributary," Tahir mentioned. "From there we will enter the cave of Exilir, our passage to ground level."

"That doesn't look like a tributary!" Frank shouted amid the rumble and surging water. "It's more like a whirlpool!"

Tahir shrugged. "I thought I'd frighten you if I told you the truth about the tributary. We just need to pass this mere obstacle first!"

"Mere obstacle!" Chet cried. But his voice was consumed as the boat whipped around the watery vortex!


	14. Chapter XIV: Hades

CHAPTER XIV

 _Hades_

As each boat descended further and further down into the large, spiraling whirlpool, Tony in the last boat flung a rope from his boat to the boat in front of him. "Wrap it around your bow," he instructed one of the knights in Italian, "and pass your rope on to the other one! Pronto!"

The knight quickly did as he was commanded. In an efficient manner, nearly all the boats were soon chained together. Tony, at the helm of his boat, with Phil guiding the rope line, steered his boat away from the whirlpool. The weight of his boat, coupled with pilots guiding their vessels away from danger, managed to circumvent the vortex.

However, the first boat was not so lucky. It was too far into the whirlpool for the rope from the second boat to reach them. "Fellows!" Biff called in vain, the rope in his hand. But it was too late. In dismay, the others watched as Tahir, his fellow knights protecting the Shroud, and Frank, Joe and Chet descent into the foreboding tomb of the whirlpool. Even the boat disappeared into the dark pit below.

"Fellows!" Biff shouted again, with Phil and Tony repeating the axiom. But their voices only echoed in the cavern the further they got from the whirlpool. Callie and Iola embraced each other, both crying hysterically. The knights removed their fez caps in mourning. For the rest of the voyage in the underground river, nobody said a word.

 _What_ , Iola thought to herself, _would we tell Mom and Dad and Mr. and Mrs. Hardy?_

"Were they friends of yours?" a knight asked in broken English to the sorrowful girls. "As Tahir was to us?"

Callie answered, brokenhearted, "They were more than friends to all of us. One was a sibling to her," she said in a cracked voice nodding to Iola. "His name was Chet."

"Ah, the rotund boy," the knight replied, nodding. "Yes, I saw similarity. Except for weight." Iola continued sobbing in Callie's arm. "But do not worry!" the knight perked up. "They have only entered a new realm!"

"A new realm?" Biff asked sarcastically from another boat.

"A new realm!" the knight answered. "Hades!"

Iola and Callie responded with a new burst of wailing and lamentation.

A few short moments later, through an ingenious natural hydraulic system and the reliability of the boats' engines, the surviving caravan gradually made their way through a narrow isthmus that led to the interior of a cave. The surviving knights explained to the devastated Bayporters that just a few hundred meters away was the mouth of the cave, and thus, the Egyptian coast.

"But without the Shroud," cried Tony, "without our friends, the mission is over! We must report to the authorities what happened." A pit had grown in Tony's stomach. The others felt the same.

"In the case of Hades," the friendly knight who tried consoling Iola was saying, "We go to the Brickyard."

"What is he talking about?" Iola wailed. "What are we going to do without them?"

"Only thing we can do," Phil grimly replied as the expedition exited the cave into the dimming daylight sun. "Follow them."

The group clung the coastline as it sailed eastward. Occasionally, the knights would sound a call that resembled something like a muezzin.

"Do we know what they are doing?" Biff asked Callie in a low voice.

"I've been asking myself that since we started this journey," Callie said, emotionless and despairing.

After an hour of casual sailing and repeating the call, an aircraft appeared overhead. The Bayporters expected the craft to pass over them, but it hovered directly above the vessels. The knights waved up.

In a short time, an inlet appeared, to which the leading vessel turned onto and prepared for landing. "Should we follow them?" Tony asked nobody in particular.

"What choice do we have?" he heard someone groan. It sounded like Phil.

"The aircraft continued flying, but just as the vessels made landfall, a number of military-looking vehicles appeared out of the mirage-like sand of the Egyptian desert coast. A number of plain clothesmen jumped out, most of them wearing khakis and polos.

"Hiya, friends!" greeted one of the men as he took off his sunglasses. _The man was Fenton Hardy!_ "Welcome to camp Brickyard!"

"Mr. Hardy!" Iola wailed, instinctively embracing the father of her longtime beau. "We have terrible news!" Callie uttered as she joined them. The other Bayporters gathered around, their faces glum.

"What's the trouble?" Mr. Hardy asked. He was joined by another middle-aged man. "By the way, folks, this is my colleague, Felix Leiter of the CIA."

"How do you do?" Leiter asked pleasantly.

Tony grumbled a sorry "How do you do?" in reply before relating the terrible misfortune of Frank, Joe, Chet, Tahir, let alone the Shroud of Turin and some knights getting sucked into the whirlpool.

At that, Mr. Hardy and Leiter let out an enormous laugh. "Hades!" they each said in unison.

"H-how did you know about Hades?" Phil stammered.

"Because we built it," Leiter replied. "Actually, MI6 really takes the credit."  
"MI6?" Biff repeated. "As in British Secret Service?"

"They're really the ones in charge of the operation," Mr. Hardy answered. His eyes glimmered at the confused expressions on the faces of the Bayporters. Mr. Hardy then apologized for being facetious. "Look, they can tell you all about it!"

He let out a whistle and the familiar faces of Chet, Joe, and Frank emerged from a truck. They were eagerly greeted by the Bayporters.

"What happened?" Callie shouted.

"Hades is a brilliant piece of engineering," Frank said. "It's a manmade shuttle to an underground bunker built by the Allies during World War II. In case anyone needs to escape from the river."

"So we all could have gone down the whirlpool?" Phil asked, dumbstruck.

"That's what I was trying to get you to do," Tahir answered as he joined the group. "But you probably thought that would be weird."

"And the Shroud?" Iola asked.

"Safe," Mr. Hardy answered to wide grins. "But that doesn't mean SPECTRE is in the clear. Are you still game to take them down?"

"And how!" the Bayporters replied.

"Where did Chet go?" Biff asked, confused.

Leiter chuckled. "He met a new friend. Come on, I'll introduce you."


	15. Chapter XV: Acheiropoieta

CHAPTER XV

 _Acheiropoieta_

The Bayporters were still quite confused over the machinations of the Hades chute system. Mr. Hardy explained how the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers developed a whirlpool that funneled to a long vat acting as a vacuum leading directly to a landing pad and adjacent control room. He first saw the operation as a corporal on the African front during the war. Most recently, it came to his attention during his work in the Bahamas.

"We couldn't believe we saw Dad when we landed!" Joe exclaimed as the group continued to bombard the Hades survivors with questions.

"We really thought we were done for," Frank admitted.

"The Army sure must have had an egghead to design such a contraption!" Biff cracked.

"Indeed," Mr. Hardy replied. "It was engineered by a brilliant scientist who I believe is one of the leading new technologists in Silicon Valley. Also a generous philanthropist and art collector. Name of Alduous Huxley Drollinger."

Frank, Joe, Tony and Phil Cohen exchanged glances. They quickly brought Mr. Hardy up to speed on the number of recurrences the name Drollinger has appeared in the case.

"Let's add him to the debriefing," Mr. Hardy promised.

"The Shroud might be safe," Joe suggested, "but only for now. We can't stop until SPECTRE is dissolved." The others quickly agreed.

They now walked a short distance towards a camouflaged base dubbed the Brickyard. Mr. Hardy promised to update the gang on the status of what he'd uncovered since the group embarked on their voyage. Everywhere they went among the classified personnel at the base they were greeted with congratulations for safe transport of the Shroud.

Mr. Hardy and Felix Leiter led the Bayporters to a mess hall for a much anticipated hot meal. "Hey, so this is where Chet is!" Phil called out as he noticed the lad playing cards with a group of gentlemen.

Felix Leiter stated, "Chet sure knows his card games."

"Make sure he's playing by the rules, Mr. Leiter," Frank quipped. "He's been known to try to pull fast ones. Especially during his magician phase."

The others laughed as some scattered to the buffet line. "I heard that," Chet said without looking up from his hand. The man across from him, in a short-sleeved brown polo, hair slick and parted to one side, kept his own eyes down on his cards, poker-faced.

"Say, Dad," Joe said in a low voice as he eyed the mysterious man across from Chet. "What of Dr. Jones? Is he all right?"

Mr. Hardy's face clouded. "That's why we need your help," he replied.

The group convened in a meeting room. Frank and Joe and friends learned from the presenter, Felix Leiter, that the investigation into the whereabouts of Ernst Blofeld's stronghold determined that it was likely located in three areas.

Mr. Hardy unfurled a map. "The geographic locations of Cape Verde, off the west African coast," explained, pointing to one circle, "is an option. Another is here." Mr. Hardy traced a circle around southern Greece. "The island of Cyprus. And third, the far end of the world." He pointed all the way down by Argentina. "The Falkland Islands. All three contain structures impervious to satellite imagery."

"When did you last have movement on SPECTRE?" Frank inquired.

"Was it Armenia?" Joe added.

Leiter nodded. "Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel reference to Edessa duped SPECTRE into thinking the Shroud was hidden in the ancient city wall. They had Jones with them. When they found out Edessa was not it, they've vanished."

"What makes you think the Falkland Islands?" Callie asked.

"We know Blofeld hid in Brazil for many years after the war while conceiving SPECTRE," Leiter answered. "Operatives have also been to and fro from South America in the last several years."

"I don't see that fitting in to Blofeld's plan for the Shroud," Frank said. "What of Cape Verde?"

"That's my theory," Tahir offered, joining the group. "It's within the realm of Europe but not of it. Perfect for a stronghold."

"Dr. Jones uncovered a Carthaginian settlement there several decades ago," Mr. Hardy explained. "They left behind a fortress to prevent the Romans from sailing into the Atlantic. Blofeld may have 'inherited' it."

Each of the Bayporters weighed the possibility of that location in their own minds. Finally, Biff nodded to Cyprus. "And Cyprus?"

A voice boomed in response from behind the group. "An abandoned monastery."

Heads turned. Chet and his crony from the card game stood at the doorway. The man folded his arms. Chet did the same. The others waited expectantly for the man to continue. He did not offer anything else. In the corner, Felix Leiter smiled.

"So," Frank reasoned, turning back, "An abandoned monastery sounds promising. But so does the Cape Verde stronghold."

"How did it become abandoned?" Iola asked.

"A few years ago monks living at the monastery contracted some kind of collective illness. Highly contagious. All of the occupants of the monastery perished," Leiter answered.

"Abandoned ever since," an additional CIA agent, Kaspar, added.

"Now that's suspicious," Joe volunteered.

"Agreed," Frank answered, deep in thought.

"Maybe it's connected to my great-uncle's order," Tony offered. "Do we know the name of it?"

"It's an Eastern Orthodox monastery," Mr. Hardy explained, firing up an overhead projector. He placed a transparency sheet on the glass. "This is what it looks like." The group gazed at a photograph, likely from the 1930s, of a funeral service on the monastic grounds.

"Built in the 10th century," Kaspar elucidated, "the monastery is situated on the northern coast." Even though a black-and-white photograph, one could see the shimmering, enchanting waters of the Mediterranean Sea.

"That's a long explanation to your question, Tony," Leiter said. "To let you know it's a Greek name, rather unfamiliar to our ears. It's called Acheiropoieta Monastery."

A collective gasp rose from the Bayporters. For the first time, the man in the back expressed some emotion as he saw the reaction to the name. He unfolded his arms. Chet did the same.

"Do you know this?" Mr. Hardy asked excitedly.

Tahir stood up, as did Frank and Joe and the others. "That's it! That's where Blofeld's stronghold is!" Joe exclaimed.

"Not made by human hands," Biff said slowly. "There's something in that monastery connected with the Shroud."

Leiter and Mr. Hardy exchanged surprised glances. "How did we miss that?" Leiter asked.

"Let's get going," the man in the back said.

"Excuse me, sir," an irritated Frank retorted, facing him. "May I ask who you are?"

"Oh, this is my friend," Chet replied with a friendly grin. Then he frowned. "Rats, I've forgotten. What is it again, Jim something?" he asked.

The man rolled his eyes. "Bond," he blandly answered. "James Bond."


	16. Chapter XVI: Mount Olympos

CHAPTER XVI

 _Mount Olympos_

"You never told us you knew anyone from MI6, Dad!" Frank chided his father.

"Commander Bond and I met through our mutual acquaintances Admiral Rogers and Felix here," Mr. Hardy explained as Joe, Frank, and Chet prepared backpacks. "And with Felix the former student of Dr. Jones, it was only a matter of time before we all fell into the same orbit."

"SPECTRE gave us quite a run for our money in the Bahamas," Bond grumbled as he tied up his own pack. "But," he continued, hoisting his pack over his shoulders, "Emilio Largo's Operation Thunderball is no more thanks to the team effort," he nodded to Fenton Hardy. "Even if it's opened a new can of worms, shall we say."

"What does SPECTRE mean, anyhow?" Joe asked. "We've been wondering that this whole time."

Bond, already out the door, rattled off the meaning of the acronym. "Special Executive for Counter-intelligence, Terrorism, Revenge, and Extortion." He exited the locker room headed toward Camp Brickyard's helipad.

"Pithy," Chet replied as he trotted out after Bond.

Felix Leiter shook his head. "Talk about peas in a pod."

"Never a dull moment with Chet, Mr. Leiter," Joe deadpanned. "Are there any new double-0 openings?"

"Bond's tenure is always precarious," Leiter replied.

The group had devised a multiple frontal assault on the Acheiropoieta Monastery. Numerous vessels would approach the 3500 square mile island of Cyprus so as to distract SPECTRE's watchmen. Another pack would approach from the air. This contingent was made up of Bond, Frank, Joe, Leiter, Kaspar, and Chet.

During the preparation for embarkation, a vessel bearing the rippling yellow and white flag of the Vatican and the red flag sporting the papal coat of arms of Pope Paul VI docked. Cardinal Geraci, accompanied by a coterie of Swiss Guards led by Denys Randazzo, entered the Brickyard premise.

After a round of hellos from the Bayporters, the cardinal was led to inspect the Shroud. Once the cardinal confirmed the authenticity, it was decided some Guards would remain at base to protect the Shroud while Denys and a few others would be part of the invasion into Cyprus.

Just before the commencement of action, Mr. Hardy ticked off everyone's role: Frank, Joe and Chet in the air; Tony with the Mr. Hardy vessel; Biff and Phil Cohen with the Swiss Guard squadron. The plan was for the air regiment to infiltrate the monastery first, with the sea troop as reinforcement.

Callie and Iola remained at the camp in the event no one returned at a designated hour. Chet, in a flight suit, flashed a thumbs up as he climbed into the chopper. The others were already conversing in the pit via headsets. Less than a moment alter, Callie and Iola watched as the helicopter ascended the camp Brickyard helipad and set out into the blue sky on the Egyptian coast.

"Boys, we're about 2 ½ hours out," Leiter called out through the radio feed.

"Roger!" Joe replied enthusiastically. "Sort of like Barmet Bay below, eh, fellows?"

"You sure got a good look at it the last time we were in a chopper!" Frank joked.

Bond tossed back a parachute. "Anyone ever use one of these?" he asked from the front, his face hidden behind sunglasses and helmet.

Frank and Joe each flashed a smile. "Once or twice," Joe said. They each remembered harried moments in the past with _Skyhappy Sal_ pilot, Jack Wayne. Bond then hoisted pairs of skis to each individual. Frank and Joe exchanged surprised glances. Noticing the Hardys' discreet glance at the other, Bond said, "I hear the resorts in Cyprus are quite charming."

Frank asked, "Do you know Dr. Jones well, Mr. Bond?"

"I met his father first, actually," Bond replied, "when a small lad. I heard him speak on King Arthur in Fountainbridge," he continued.

"We, uh, have visual on target," Kaspar announced as the island of Cyprus became visible. "10 minutes out."

"Get your chute's on," Bond said somewhat urgently. "We're out in 5."

"Chute's on!" Chet echoed eagerly as he complied with the secret agent's directive. He then added, "5 minutes!"

"5 minutes!" Frank replied.

Yet no sooner did Kaspar begin his slight descent than he noticed two ex-Luftwaffe fighter jets, both Messerschmitt Bf 109s, trail the chopper. A moment later gunfire opened on the helicopter. Kaspar dexterously swerved, utilizing the flexibility of the chopper to elude getting hit.

"So much for 5 minutes," Bond quipped. SPECTRE agents Markus Bismaquer and a fellow called Braun each operated the old German warplanes procured by Blofeld.

The assault on the chopper continued unabated. As they were flying over Cyprus's Mount Olympos, a hail of gunfire blew out the tail rotor.

"We're hit!" Kaspar called.

"Everybody move!" Bond shouted, in no time leaping out of the damaged aircraft with skis in hand!

"E-everybody move," Chet stammered weakly. The plump Bayporter had no more time to lollygag, however, as Joe pushed Chet out.

The rapidly, wildly descending aircraft soon crashed into Mount Olympos as six parachuters hovered thousands of feet in the air above the fiery explosion!

"Skis on!" Bond shouted from the air as he finagled his skis onto his feet. The others, clumsily and not without difficulty given their descent towards a mountaintop, complied. No sooner did they don the skis did they land onto a snowy promontory, called Pedalium, part of the Olympos mountain range. The group then quickly skied down Pedalium, side-stepping shrubbery, crevices and other potential hazards.

"We're still some distance from the monastery," Felix explained while the group sped downhill. "But approaching it from the inland will prove a surprise."

No sooner did Leiter lay out his plan did a number of Russian aerosanis leap over hills behind the skiiers, gunfire blazing at Bond, the Bayporters, and Kaspar and Leiter!

"Surprise is on us!" Joe shouted, coasting out of the way of a barrage. The others zig-zagged in the hopes of throwing off the approaching military strength snowmobiles.

"They're gaining on us!" Chet called as he brought up the rear.

"They're only gaining on you," Bond replied from up front as he cascaded over a plateau. What the British agent didn't notice, however, was the descent of another paratrooper, from one of the stalking Messerschmitt's that downed Kaspar's helicopter. The timing was impeccable. The goon, none other than low-level freelancing thug Muldoon, tackled Bond while in mid-air. The two came crashing in a snowy fissure below the plateau.

The momentum suddenly turned in favor of SPECTRE. The exhausted ski troup knew they were outmanned and surrounded by snowmobiles and agents. With Bond suppressed by the wolfish Muldoon, they surrendered.

As they were rounded up and cuffed, a snowmobile door opened. Ernst Stavro Blofeld thrust his bald head up from the rooftop, cradling a placid, if hostile, white cat.

"The gods of Olympos are smiling upon me this day," Blofeld uttered in his Polish accent. "Now we can finally begin the ceremony."


	17. Chapter XVII: The Sacred and the Profane

CHAPTER XVII

 _The Sacred and the Profane_

Winter night was falling fast as the snowmobiles approached Acheiropoieta. What was once a simple, ascetic house of work and prayer had become a fortress of cunning and deception, the ideal home for Ernst Stavro Blofeld.

As the rounded up would-be invaders were taken through a small underground loading dock, each wondered to himself what would become of his fate. They all hoped the sea contingent had also not yet been discovered.

SPECTRE agents, included a gloating Muldoon, smothered the captives ensuring none of them would attempt any escape histrionics. As they were led from the loading dock up a series of stone steps, the detainees could hear the barking of orders and brief conversations in various dialogues coming from above.

Upon reaching the top of the circular staircase, the prisoners passed a diverse group of SPECTRE orderlies quickly trotting down the dark hallway, illuminated by torches, their shoes clomping on the ancient stone, each wearing white medical-like lab coats. They seemed in a hurry, and not a bit petrified.

Finally, Muldoon and company led the Hardys, Bond, Chet, Felix and Kaspar into the monastery's chapel, a fine piece of Gothic architecture on a smaller scale. Despite the gravity of their situation, the group managed to gaze up in admiration at the 10th century beauty, replete with ribbed vaulting and buttresses.

Yet in the nave the pews once designed for worshipping monks had been removed. Before them instead was a hive of scientific activity. The lab coat orderlies were scattered about, concentrating their attention on numerous machinery placed in the transepts. There was beeping, the whirring of appliance fans, low dialogue in foreign tongues, and the general air of preparation for something important.

At the area that was once designed for the high altar, a sarcophagus was placed, with tubing and wiring plugged into it. That cabling led to various machines.

Finally, the foreboding voice of Blofeld boomed from somewhere in the sanctuary, the natural acoustics of the structure easily carrying his voice to the far corners of the old chapel. As he spoke, technicians and a dozen robe-clad monk-looking individuals formed a semi-circle around the sarcophagus.

"Like the Templars of old," Blofeld began, "betrayed and burned at the stake because of it, so too has SPECTRE been betrayed by those who claim purity of heart. For 25 years I have sought the Holy Shroud the monks of St. Patricia concealed in plain sight. But no matter. In those 25 years SPECTRE has enjoyed unparalleled success here in this monastery 'not made by human hand,' as if my pact with the devil has proven as fruitful as the day the deal was made."

Frank and Joe and the others had been vainly attempting to squirm or find some loophole with their cuffs. But they were surrounded, and knew they could only wait for the next part of Blofeld's scheme. Chet glanced up at Bond, who stared ahead, unamused.

Blofeld's voice was rising, his energy gaining. "Are you familiar with Holy Fire?" Blofeld continued rhetorically. "The miracle of fire in the Jerusalem tomb each Easter? Light suddenly bursts forth from the tomb without explanation. Soon, torches and candles are ablaze because of this original, unknown flame." He paused. Nobody, including the technicians and occultists, moved.

"It's another mystery that points to the Holy Shroud. You who have spent such a short time investigating it, have you even asked yourself what it is a relic _of_? Of a dead man? Nay, I tell you it is not a relic of death, but of life. Resurrected life."

Alduous Huxley Drollinger emerged from the chapel ambulatory and with a lab coat over his black turtleneck, approached the sarcophagus with a few minions. Bond grimaced, muttering through clenched teeth, "Drollinger."

"You'll of course recognize A.H. Drollinger, the scion of California's Silicon Valley," Blofeld explained. "Beyond his work as an engineer and technologist, he was a geneticist for a time. But probably more than anything else he considers himself," Blofeld paused dramatically. "I think it's time we can tell them, yes?" he asked from his unknown location, prompting a slight smile from Drollinger who was intently inspecting the tubing of the sarcophagus. "More than anything he considers himself a transhumanist. Or is it 'radical life extensionist'?"

Frank and Joe tried to exchange glances, but nudges from the guards limited their movement.

"As do I, as do I," Blofeld added hastily. "And so during all this time of you busying yourself thinking SPECTRE was after the Shroud as if we were mere Nazis, as if we were interested in the black market, we have been laboring on this island before your very eyes building the future. Building new life," he paused again, "eternal life!"

"They're not interested in the Shroud itself," Frank said under his breath. "But in what it means!"

"Light. _Photismos_. Illumination," Blofeld was saying.

"They're trying to resurrect themselves!" Joe uttered.

"Have you finally caught on?" Blofeld chuckling. "We hear your clacking. Now, Dr. Drollinger, tell me, to reproduce the 'intense burst of light' we hear so much about, that purportedly caused the image imprint in the first place, how many lasers do we need?"

"Lasers?" Bond gulped, recalling his precarious encounter with a single laser under the watch of Auric Goldfinger a couple years earlier.

Drollinger again grinned briefly. "14,000 lasers," he said.

"14,000!" Blofed replied in faux astonishment.

Now all the captives gulped.

"And how many watts, roughly, are needed to get as close to what supposedly happened that embedded the image of the man on the Shroud?"

"About several billion."

"And in how much time?"

"Less than a second. About 1/40 billionth to be exact."

"As you can see, we've rehearsed this before," Blofeld reveled. "But now the time has come to finally pull the lever on the vacuum ultraviolet radiation experiment via 14,000 lasers operating at billions of watts in less than a second."

Bond burst out laughing. "James!" Chet whispered. "Stop!"

"Is there a problem, Mr. Bond?" Blofeld sneered. Drollinger and the others glared at Bond. Only the flickering torches from around the chapel-turned-laboratory could be heard.

"I've encountered madness before, Blofeld, but this absolutely defines it," Bond said flatly.

"Keep it up, Mr. Bond, and you'll be our first test subject," Blofeld sneered. He then paused, as if trying to calm his irritation. Bond's outburst at least momentarily rattled Blofeld's roll. "Perhaps you'd care to tell me why this is madness?"

"Careful, James," Leiter warned softly.

"A scientifically resurrected body is quite ingenious, Blofeld," Bond admitted. "I'm not sure what you'd be able to accomplish aside from walking through walls."

"I'll answer this," spoke up Alduous Huxley Drollinger. "Whether or not light from some unknown source imprinted the Shroud is ultimately of no concern to us," Drollinger explained, slowly walking towards the captives. "For all we care it could have been a medieval forger who actually conducted this artistic experiment with a cadaver. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that the Shroud does suggest life without death is possible. And in this world, there's no Great Seal to limit yourself to immortality," he snickered, referencing the Holy Grail's final resting place in the temple within the canyon of the Crescent Moon.

"Sounds like you're up on your _National Geographic_ , Drollinger," Joe taunted.

"Speaking of Dr. Jones," Frank said evenly. "Has he been a victim of this 'artistic experiment'?"

"Not yet," Drollinger answered, "but I'm glad you asked. We can thank you for wanting to get this started." The scientist turned to his minions. "Bring him out!"

From out of the side transept of the former chapel, orderlies wheeled out a gurney on which was strapped Dr. Henry Jones, Jr.!


	18. Chapter XVIII: Empty Tomb

CHAPTER XVII

 _Empty Tomb_

As the Hardys watched in horror as Dr. Jones was wheeled towards the sarcophagus, both Frank and Joe tried to reassure themselves that a rescue would transpire at any moment. But there was still no sign of the reinforcements from the sea. With each passing minute, hope in any eleventh hour liberation was dissipating.

Dr. Jones shot a wild-eyed, yet defiant glance in the direction of the fellow captives. "Bond," he managed to nod towards the British agent as orderlies disbanded the straps tying him to the gurney.

"Jones," Bond replied as he watched the proceedings. "Blofeld," he then sighed, "Will you show yourself so we can continue this lovely conversation?"

Though Drollinger was busy with overseeing the transferring of Jones from the gurney to the sarcophagus, he jerked his thumb towards Bond to an orderly who immediately gestured Muldoon, at attention behind Bond. A blow to the back of the head sent Bond spinning to the ground.

In the meantime, Frank and Joe surreptitiously tried to find any possible diversion. They couldn't see anything promising.

"Take me!" Chet then shouted instinctively.

"Chet, quiet!" Frank hissed.

"Morton, calm down," Leiter advised quietly.

Drollinger's eyes popped. "You would rather be the guinea pig for immortality? You would want to join a small group of leaders who will shape civilization separating the sheep from the goats, the righteous from the unrighteous, the precious few from the babbling ignorance of the general populace?"

"If you take me," Chet continued haltingly, feeling for his words. "I either incinerate, or I become transphysical, correct? Aren't you confident the procedure will work? Do you really want Dr. Jones, a man you'll never convert to your ways, living with you forever?"

During Chet's monologue, Frank continued to intently study the chapel. _Why was Blofeld playing the role of man-behind-the-curtain?_ he asked himself. He looked around at the orderlies, all who appeared wholly devoted to the proceedings. That's when Frank noticed the demeanor of one of the men in the lab coats standing near a machine lever. He seemed worried, a look far different than the others around him.

"Kid, knock it off," Jones called to Chet. "Don't risk it. It's crazy!"

Drollinger became nervous upon hearing Chet out. "Send in the first guinea. We have to follow procedure. One must die before granted new life. Why don't we try one of our own?"

Chet and the Hardys breathed a sigh of relief.

"Fine," Blofeld called. "Select."

Drollinger looked around at those before him until his eyes settled on a meek-looking young man. "And you are?" Drollinger asked.

The man replied in a Greek accent, "Dmitri."

"Well, Dmitri, step up." With wobbly knees Dmitri obeyed. He was then injected unsuspectingly with poison, lost consciousness, and placed in the sarcophagus, which was then sealed. Chet, mouth agape, stared back at the Hardys in disbelief.

"Pull the lever!" Blofeld summoned.

"Lever!" Drollinger repeated.

One of the orderlies looked at the worried-looking man standing by the lever. "Lever, idiot!" he whispered urgently. "Lever!"

The man, confused, looked at the machine as if he had never seen it before in his life. Frustrated, the man next to him pushed the dumbstruck person aside and pulled the lever.

Nothing happened. All waited expectantly, mostly with bated breath. Then, a humming noise was heard, as if energy was gathering, gradually growing louder. Then, in less than a blink of an eye, the interior of the sarcophagus lit up and then immediately went dark again. A pop was heard, and then, nothing. Steam emerged from a machine.

Drollinger grinned. "Open sarcophagus," he muttered, gasping.

The orderlies obeyed. All eyes were on the sarcophagus as the orderlies first lifted with much strength the stone slab. As they moved it away, heads craned forward, no matter how far back they were, including Muldoon, the guards, and the Hardys. Nobody noticed an awake Bond, hitherto passed out on the ground, slide backwards along the smooth granite chapel ground and disappear out the narthex.

 _The sarcophagus was empty!_ "Empty?" Blofeld could be heard in mild confusion. "Where did he go?"

"Get ready for a fight," Franked warned in as low as possible to Joe.

"After all this time and this is the reaction you give?" Jones mocked. "You miscalculated the whole thing, Blofeld," he continued. "You're army of transhumanists taking over still needs some work, I should say. Maybe take into account the nature of a soul next time."

"Silence!" Drollinger shouted. "Get in there!"

Jones attempted to shrug away from the orderlies but they easily overpowered him. He was hoisted into the sarcophagus and the lid sealed.

"Pull the lever!" Blofeld demanded, his voice quivering in extreme anger.

"Lever!" Drollinger again repeated, this time with clear agitation.

"Lev—" the orderly said to the confused man. "Oh, I'll just do it." Before he could pull the lever, the man interrupted him, "You mean this one?"

Without waiting for an answer, the man then turned and pushed a blue button and pulled a lever upwards. He then randomly pressed any number of buttons he could. The machine malfunctioned, dangerous sparks flying in multiple directions.

"Now!" Frank ordered. The Hardys, unsure if the man was attempting to sabotage the machinery or truly did not know what he was doing, along with Leiter and Kaspar, dismantled the guards around them. Orderlies and agents, yelling and scattering in directions, charged the outnumbered youths and CIA agents. The clumsy man at the lever was also oppressed. But few if none of them were equipped for hand-to-hand combat. Frank and Joe valiantly fought their way through the onslaught.

The result of the malfunctioning machine was a dazzling multitude of lasers spewing in all directions.

A number of escaping agents threw their arms up in a frenzy in frantic escape only to be decked to the ground as agent 007 swooped in from the buttresses utilizing his grapple and rope.

When the lasers were not connecting with unlucky SPECTRE thugs, among them a misfortunate Muldoon, they were destroying the structure of the chapel. The building was gradually, and quickly, crumbling.

Drollinger, panicking, fled through a side sacristy door. Leiter, dodging from the lasers, called out, "We have to bail, everyone!"

"You're right, Mr. Leiter!" Chet called decking an agent. "Evacuate!" He waited for someone to echo him. "Someone say 'evacuate'!"

"Evacuate!" Bond retorted from behind Chet. The two flashed a grin at the other.

As Bond, the CIA agents, and the Bayporters dashed outside the crumbling edifice and malfunctioning equipment, the man who started the breakdown threw open with great strength the stone sarcophagus. Inside, Jones was gasping for breath, cramped and claustrophobic.

The man put his hand out. Jones complied, and the two darted across the unsafe chapel and dove out the side entrance as the vaulted ceiling crashed onto the sarcophagus and equipment.

In the courtyard SPECTRE agents were dashing in all directions, many hoping to flee to the boats at the dock. Yet they did not take into account an offensive being waged down at the water. Jones and his rescuer noticed the others darting past the old monastic rooms towards the coast.

The port that contained SPECTRE ships was the site of a firefight between SPECTRE guards and the ships of the just-arrived sea division led by Mr. Hardy!

"Where's Blofeld?!" Joe shouted amid the chaos.

"Something tells me he wasn't here at all," Bond said.

"James, we need to round up Drollinger at least," Jones snapped. "I know the way." He turned to his rescuer. "Do you have it?"

"Of course, Indy," the man replied, producing a whip from under his lab coat.

"You know this man?" Frank asked Jones as they followed the archaeologist towards the underground loading dock.

"You bet," Jones called out. He elbowed his portly buddy as they darted down the steps. "Aren't you going to introduce yourself?"

"Apologies," he answered. "My name is Sallah," he doffed an invisible fez. "At your service."


	19. Chapter XIX: The Ultimate Boon

CHAPTER XIX

 _The Ultimate Boon_

On the Pan Am transatlantic flight back to Bayport, Fenton Hardy continually pressed his exhausted sons on how A.H. Drollinger, the brilliant geneticist and futurist, was somehow nabbed while attempting his escape from Acheiropoieta Monastery. He just couldn't get it straight. He had never seen such babbling and overlapping of attempted storytelling from Frank and Joe since they were toddlers.

"Dad, you wouldn't believe it!" Joe was trying to say. "There was this snowmobile, okay, over here, okay? And then, then…" he struggled for the right verbiage to describe the scenario.

"But then Bond was riding one snowmobile on one ski, like this!" Frank interrupted, making a gesture with his hand.

"He essentially drove the snowmobile on its side?" Fenton asked, dumbfounded. By now, the other Bayporters, Tony, Biff, Phil, Callie, and Iola, crowded around the narrow aisle to hear the raconteurs.

"Dr. Jones was incredibly agile as well," Joe described. "He leaped onto Drollinger's snowmobile and was able to steer it with one arm!"

"And what were you two doing that whole time?!" Callie asked. The others nodded, desperately wanting to know.

Frank and Joe grinned. "Well, tell us!" Tony urged.

The two sleuths leaned back in their seats and closed their eyes, contented, if tired, smiles crossing their faces. The Bayporters exchanged glances.

"Where's Chet?" Phil finally asked, looking around the cabin.

"The boys pooled their funds and bought Chet a first class ticket," Mr. Hardy explained. "I guess he pulled some brave stunt when all seemed lost in the monastery."

The group scrambled to first class, earning a warning from a stewardess for calmness and not to linger too long in the aisle. Mr. Hardy chuckled, and turned in admiration to his sons. Yes, he admitted to himself, Blofeld escaped, in fact he never was even near Acheiropoieta Monastery, but operating from a submarine MI6 believed to be posited in the Black Sea. Such was a price to pay for the destruction of SPECTRE's radiation equipment and the decimation of their transhumanism department. Fenton knew better than most that one's archnemesis never quite goes away. Indeed, James Bond's own dangerous tango with Blofeld would continue the following year as described in an exotic and unusual story called _You Only Live Twice_.

"Chet! Chet!" the eager group called, shaking their friend's shoulder in the first row. A _Scientific American_ , a _National Geographic_ , Dr. Jones's Shroud book, a novel by an ornithologist, and an art history coffee table book were spread out across the sleeping lad's tummy.

"Chet!" Iola urgently summoned her brother with finality.

Chet immediately sputtered awake at the directive, arms flaying, eyes wide. "Evacuate! Evacuate! Lasers incoming! Lasers incoming!" he screamed.

The Bayporters each looked at the other in confused trepidation. Nearby passengers hearing the squeal quickly pressed their stewardess call button. Immediately, Chet fell back asleep, instantly snoring. "What happened to these boys?" Callie wondered in awe.

The group slowly returned back to their seats, stunned. Tony was thinking how the one enduring mysterious relic of modern times, the Shroud of Turin, was now safely back in the Shroud Chapel in Turin, the Baroque structure designed by Guarini in the 17th century to house the cloth. The following summer on a family trip to Naples to visit with his family and Brother Alberto, Tony was granted a chance to see the cloth with his family in Turin, thanks to Cardinal Geraci, eternally grateful for the restoration of the Shroud without the looming threat of SPECTRE.

Biff contemplated the architectural destruction of the 10th century monastery and became quite curious in Byzantine history. Amazingly, he and Phil Cohen developed a correspondence with A.H. Drollinger, who was taken into custody by Bond, urging the engineer to rebuild the monastery his machines destroyed. Working with a team of international bricklayers and stonemasons, Drollinger was put in charge as chief architect of the rebuilding of Acheiropoieta Monastery. He would later oversee other architectural projects throughout the world. He never returned to California's Silicon Valley.

Phil Cohen's technological interests were piqued by Drollinger's theories, maligned though they may be. He was determined to carve out some kind of vocation in a healthy promotion of technology without it becoming one's own master. He also convinced his parents on a tour of Jerusalem, including a stop at Egypt's Port of Said to explore a nearby cave that led to an underground tunnel below the Mediterranean. He was relieved that UNESCO announced its commitment to protect the passageway.

Callie was thinking of what school Frank would choose, and what the future held for their relationship. No sooner upon his return to Bayport did he receive an offer from the Dean of Marshall College he had gotten to know so well in these last few days to attend the school on scholarship. Indeed, all the Bayport chums would be granted a financial gift for higher education by the relieved exiled king, the House of Savoy's Umberto II, the rightful owner of the Shroud. At the time of the revision of this story (February 1979[1]), King Umberto is still living in Portugal, though he has essentially bequeathed ownership of the Shroud to the Roman pope. (The Shroud was publicly exhibited in September 1978 for the first time in 45 years.)

And Iola was stunned Joe was at such a loss of words describing the culminating, all-important chase sequence. She concluded that whatever transpired in that final pursuit for Drollinger, it must have been a once-in-a-lifetime experience to witness the Hardy Boys, Indiana Jones, and James Bond in a hunt to track down a mad scientist.

 _What does the future hold for my two sons?_ Fenton asked himself as his own eyelids drooped, sleep finally closing in on him after the relentless pursuit of SPECTRE. The famous detective's question would soon be answered, however, when Frank and Joe would encounter more spies and international intrigue in _The Secret Agent on Flight 101_.

While Chet took a liking to Bond, Frank and Joe had developed great respect for the aging archaeologist, Dr. Jones. While he was well known in certain circles, they wondered why his reputation had not yet exploded on a large scale. Yet in due course all would be revealed. At the time of this revision, a Hollywood production is underway to bring Dr. Jones's adventures to the cinema.

The greatest mystery, shrouded in subterfuge and cageyness to this writer at any rate, is why Manhattan publishers continually resist publishing this epic saga precisely as it unfolded in December 1966. Perhaps it will take many decades before executives realize such a story might bring some inherent, primal happiness to an audience. After all, isn't the business of storytelling providing some uplift, wonder, and awe to those who themselves dare to dream?

I think we owe our readers and audiences at least that much.

* * *

[1] Prepared for possible publication in 1980 per Simon & Schuster following the termination of the relationship with Grosset & Dunlap. Manuscript submitted, never received a reply. S.&S. opted to publish _Night of the Werewolf_ in its stead. - F.W.D


	20. Chapter XX: Postscript

CHAPTER XX

 _Postscript_

The initial draft of THE SHROUD OF SPECTRE was written hurriedly, spurred by the excitement of this rare occasion of such a trinity of heroes uniting together, and energized by the prospect of reporting on the rather unusual open-ended climax, of which no reports, journals, or diaries from Bond, Jones, Chet, or the Hardys contain any information on how Alduous H. Drollinger was nabbed.

Utilizing my instincts honed in journalism, I approached THE SHROUD OF SPECTRE as if a newspaper account: immediate, urgent, without the intricacies I usually spend in the requisites of mystery plotting. I thought Grosset & Dunlap would leap at the manuscript. Indeed, I anticipated a negotiated fee of my long-term contract, so favorably would they respond.

I was wrong.

No sooner was I off on documenting three successive stories at once— _The Secret Agent on Flight 101_ , _The Mystery of the Whale Tattoo_ , and _The Arctic Patrol Mystery_ —when Grosset & Dunlap sent a rejection notice to my home here in Pemberton in February 1967. I received it, ironically, via Western Union while reviewing stunning SHROUD OF SPECTRE artwork by Rudy Nappi. The terse message is reprinted here:

Grosset & Dunlap

New York

Mr. Dixon:

Thank you for your submission of _The Shroud of SPECTER_ (sic). Unfortunately, Ms. Adams and our executive board have declined to publish this work, given its seismic break from canon and established tropes. Your lack of an ending, furthermore, shows either contempt for your loyal audience or poor writing. We hope it is the former. Given also the fantastic alignment of popular figures in this rather outlandish tale (let alone intellectual property from other houses), we must bar you from peddling this anywhere else in Manhattan or the outlying metropolitan region. If you do, any copies will be snatched from bookshops and destroyed. To that end, please sign the attached non-disclosure agreement (white paper, yellow is your copy) indicating your silence on the events depicted in this tale.

Best,

T. Mulvey

Editor

That night, sharing some highballs with Rudy, we burned the glorious artwork in my fireplace. When Rudy suggested I toss THE SHROUD OF SPECTRE manuscript in as well, I hesitated. Fearing any suspicious activity on my part would prompt Rudy to report my behavior to Grosset & Dunlap, I instead threw in my original m.s. of _Footprints Under the Window_ under the auspices it was the new work. _What did it matter_ , I thought, _since Grosset & Dunlap was inexplicably rewriting my stories?_

Twelve years passed until in the chaos over the fall of Grosset & Dunlap and the rise of Simon & Schuster it appeared I might finally push THE SHROUD OF SPECTRE through to publication. At this point, early 1979, not only had James Bond been etched in the mainstream public consciousness, but so also were the Hardy Boys. Indeed, ABC had just canceled _The Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries_ midway through season three. Hollywood moviemakers were preparing a motion picture about Indiana Jones. The time was right.

Again, however, executives ignored the work, instead retailing such trite work as 1980's _The Pentagon Spy_ , even if _Mystery at Smugglers Cove_ proved only a temporary reclamation of the canon glory years. Yet THE SHROUD OF SPECTRE still languished. Perhaps Rudy was right on that cold February in 1967. Perhaps I should have just pitched it.

Yet once again, the digital landscape has provided another outlet for my rejected work. Many thanks to those de facto Bayporters who continue to stoke the flame of mystery: hbndgirl, Cherylann Rivers, Caranath, and others.

Time has shown the enduring relevance of themes in THE SHROUD OF SPECTRE. The Shroud itself remains encased in Turin to this day, even surviving a threatening 1997 fire. As suggested in dialogue in the text, a radio carbon dating was in fact performed, with the results reported in 1988 deeming the cloth to be dated between 1260-1390, the timeframe when it originally became known in the West. Such a report seemed to seal speculation over its authenticity. Yet in the last 30 years new scientific studies have originated questioning the dating. Not only was a single strand taken for carbon dating—as opposed to standard procedure of multiple areas for examination—but it was a corner piece of the cloth. Any visual documentation detailing showings of the Shroud over the centuries will reveal the contamination endured by those corners. Microscopic studies have also shown embedded cotton fibers in the area of the sample, suggesting patchwork over time. The results from recent tests of a vanillin test, infrared spectroscopy test, testing of fibers, the pollen grains discovered on the cloth, and other findings at least point to the direction that still further dating testing is needed.

Most recently, confirmation that the human blood found on the Shroud revealed creatinine and ferritin iron nanoparticles, indicative that the person whose image is on the Shroud suffered severe polytrauma, only adds to the fascination of the cloth and image, not the least being the enduring mystery of how a perfect three-dimensional image was left on a non-photographically sensitive linen cloth without scorching the material.

As for Silicon Valley, reports of brilliant, eccentric tech CEOs seeking ways to halt death frequently emerge, particularly when TIME's 2013 cover story, "Can Google Stop Death?" detailed the establishment of the search engine's company Calico and its sole purpose to, in fact, halt death. Silicon's Valley romance with biotechnology and influence on the populace may veer towards conspiracy, yet there is a plethora of mainstream information on the topic. The further technology and humanity meld together, the sooner evolution into a new life form, not unlike a cyborg, remains a possibility, if not the dream of a select, wealthy few.

Finally, Byzantine and art history remain areas in desperate need of rediscovery to Western culture, pillars to this adventure of the search for the Shroud. Not only did Constantine move the Roman Empire east, with the resultant beauty of Constantinople as the political center of the empire, but also in the religious and artistic realms, the ancient importance of iconography and icon-making suggests a strand of connection to the icon of the Shroud.

As a new Indiana Jones moving image is in development at the time these chapters have been posted, with a future James Bond picture in the works, and continuing publication of Hardy Boys books, I am not subscribing for an adaptation of THE SHROUD OF SPECTRE, but rather am only urging its creators to continue to seek compelling, life-giving stories worthy of these amazing characters.

To think outside the box. To break out of the sarcophagus of tentpoles and tired plotting.

To vacate the tomb.

F.W.D

Pemberton, New Jersey

February 20, 2018


End file.
